


In Between

by Iolre



Series: A Lonely September [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of past drug abuse, Mentions of self-harm, Mentions past prostitution, Non consensual handjob, Non-Consensual Touching, PTSD, Past Rape/Non-con, Sexual Assault, Some fluff (promise), Torture, aftermath of domestic violence, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:37:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 65,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Broken and battered by an old girlfriend, months after he's home from Afghanistan, John is forced to seek refuge at Asylum - a home for men with nowhere else to go. When he meets and begins to bond with his eccentric roommate (who is even more broken than he is), John realizes that maybe - just maybe - he can heal again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Only Thing Worse Than One is None

**Author's Note:**

> Male victims of domestic violence are a rather under-studied crowd. Domestic violence in general is a very touchy subject. Everyone reacts to these kind of situations differently and I did my best to portray how I felt John and Sherlock would react, based not only on their personalities but also on the research that's been done on the topic. Asylum is also a place of my own creation, although it would be awesome if it actually existed.
> 
> I tried to cover all trigger warnings in the tags, but there might be bits here or there that might set someone off.
> 
> Thanks to Dreig for the beta/moral support!

John stared vacantly at the edge of the desk in front of him, flexing his hands around the arms of the chair. He could hear someone’s voice droning on, but the words had become irrelevant. Nothing mattered. Everything mattered. His brow furrowed in concentration. Mike had stopped talking - was he waiting for John to respond? “Pardon?”

Mike leaned back in his chair, his face blank, his emotions carefully guarded. “Things will be alright, John,” he murmured, his voice smooth and purposefully calming. Mike shifted in his chair to lean forward. John saw him steeple his fingers under his chin out of the corner of his eyes, felt his gaze on John’s bowed head. “I was saying that due to space issues, we assign roommates here at Asylum. Based on your history -” the man took in John’s sudden flinch with caring, compassionate eyes - “We assign you a roommate. You’re free to change if something comes up.” Mike paused. “You would come to me if you have any problems, of course.”

“Thank you,” John muttered automatically. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was thanking the man for. John forced himself to look up at the vicinity of Mike’s face, although he couldn’t bring himself to meet his eyes. He probably looked terrible. Too little sleep combined with the bruises didn’t paint a very attractive picture. “Thanks, Mike.” A tired twitch at the corner of John’s lips was about as much of a genuine smile as he was able to give. Exhaustion, apprehension, and fear warred for dominance in his expression and John wasn’t wholly certain which emotion was winning.

“Here is your key.” Mike placed a key on the desk and pushed it over to John, who picked it up without hesitation. Mike then stood up slowly and gestured to the open door, indicating for John to take the lead. Once they reached the door, Mike extended a folder to John, careful to avoid invading his personal space. “The folder contains your schedule as well as resources available to you, several of which you’ll be taking advantage of. It also contains a copy of the house rules.”

Mike’s face was warm and polite as he moved ahead of John and indicated that he was to come out of the office. “No relationships between inhabitants, eat when mealtimes are available - you can eat either in your room or in the cafeteria, although we prefer you eat in the cafeteria. There’s a curfew at 10pm, and no outsiders allowed into your personal rooms. Leaving is not allowed, although day or weekend passes are available to those deemed worthy.” He sighed. “Violating these rules will revoke your residency pass and require you to leave, effective immediately.”

“I know,” John said quietly. He still couldn’t bear to face Mike directly and spent most of his time with his gaze flickering around their surroundings. At the very least, he figured, he’d have a solid understanding of what the inside of that building looked like. While the hallway was mostly deserted, John could see a few people working in offices similar to Mike’s. He kept his eyes down and studiously avoided eye contact. It was a shameful enough process without feeling like he was constantly being judged by others.

“I’ll walk you to your room. If you’re lucky, your roommate will be out.” Mike turned around to face the door to his office, waiting for John to follow before closing the door behind him. He took out a separate key ring and locked the door, aware that John was watching him. “We have some particularly curious residents right now. Precautions and all, although that most certainly does not stop him.” John frowned, perplexed by Mike’s tone. He almost sounded amused.

Mike took off down the hallway, John following obediently. Silently he examined the hallway and the stairs they descended. Whomever designed the office building went for old-fashioned, stain-wood comfort. It was homey and took the edge off of John’s rampant anxiety. Mike pushed open a door at the base of the steps and they were outside. Leading a shivering John down a short path to the right, it wasn’t long before they encountered a two-story - something.

John wasn’t quite sure what it was. A half-step behind Mike as he opened the door, they went up the flight of stairs and into a small, cozy corridor. The paneling and the colours were very similar to the hallway in the office building, John noticed with interest. There were two doors. Mike knocked on the door to the one on the left, pausing briefly before unlocking it and opening it. “We’re lucky,” he muttered. “He’s out.”

“He?” John inquired, tentatively following Mike into the room. He froze in the doorway. Now he understood why Asylum had shared rooms. The rooms were probably twice the size of most bedrooms had seen, with separate living areas on each side, a bathroom, and a small kitchenette tucked off to the side. “Is this a room or an apartment?” His eyes took in every small detail. It was simple yet elegant at the same time. Every detail seemed meticulously seen to, from the elegant design on the wallpaper to the closet full of spare sheets and fluffy towels.

Mike chuckled. “Most definitely just a room. Not elegant enough to be a flat.”

“Bigger than most flats I’ve seen,” John pointed out, taking a step forward. He grimaced, rubbing his leg. The pain had been bothering him for the past few weeks, ever since - well, that was in the past. “Bugger,” he muttered, limping over to an armchair on the right side of the flat. John gave it a cursory look-over to make sure it was clean before he sank down into its plush comfort.

“Well, there is that,” Mike said vaguely, his face crinkling in a smile. “Your roommate should be back at some point, and you two can get acquainted.” He rested a hand briefly on John’s shoulder, squeezing in sympathy before he silently walked towards the door. Mike paused in the door frame before walking out and closing the door behind him.

“Thanks,” John grunted to no one. His dark blue eyes were roaming over the part of the room in front of him, taking in all of its sights more closely. It was his half, he supposed. There was a small dresser, its four drawers dusty and seemingly abandoned. The bed was unmade, cotton white sheets perched on top of the comfortable-looking mattress. A small dark throw rug not far from the naked bed added a homey touch. John sighed, sinking farther back into the armchair. The lush red fabric was soft and warm under his touch, and he squeezed the arm of the chair tentatively. He sat for a few seconds longer before lurching up and walking over to the bare bed. As the other bed was made John assumed the empty one was his. He set about sorting and tucking the sheets, rapidly absorbed in the familiar task. So consumed John was by the chore he did every day, he didn’t hear the door open.

He had just finished tucking in the neat, military corners of his bedspread when he heard footsteps behind him. John jumped six inches in the air. Who was behind him? Were they armed? What was their mission? He landed lightly on his feet, crouching immediately into an easily-remembered position that could conceal him from his enemies. As soon as John turned he realized that the tall man standing a few feet away from him didn’t pose a threat.

It was then that John’s leg protested all the leaping he had been doing. John, startled to realize he had indeed jumped and landed in a crouching position, stood up as fast as he was able to and settled his back end on the edge of the bed. Despite John’s reaction, the other man hadn’t moved an inch. If anything, John thought, the level of focus in his gaze had increased. It was strangely discomforting and John met the scrutiny with an impassive gaze.

John gave the man a cursory look-over. He was tall, just about six feet. Curly dark hair seemed to go every direction in its quest to appear disheveled yet perfectly maintained at the same time. Slender, high-arched eyebrows rested delicately over eyes as sharp as steel - as sharp as his cheekbones, John noted with mild interest. The man was dressed warmly, which was to be expected for the climate. John preferred jumpers himself. His coat was wool and draped down over elegantly shod feet. John watched long, slender fingers undoing a deep blue scarf that had been hiding a sturdy, pale neck. The man’s trousers were well-tailored - custom-made, John supposed. The man was all angles and gawky, like he was not far out of adolescence and had not yet grown into his body. John doubted he was really that young - there was no way he was under twenty five, if that.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” John stared at the man, somehow not surprised at the curtness of his voice. His eyes were boring into John’s soul. Or would have, if John happened to have a soul. He flinched the thought aside and shifted uncomfortably on the bed.

“Afghanistan. How did you know?” John’s fingers gripped the edge of the mattress as if affixing himself to the world through his fingertips. Trained eyes took in what he vaguely thought could be a hesitant expression flitting briefly across the taller man’s face before it disappeared, replaced by a blank look with a hint of a smug smile. John got a fleeting impression of china glass - of something so fragile that it didn’t know how brittle it was until it was broken.

“Elementary, really,” the man replied. He slipped off his jacket, hanging it up on the coat rack not far from the door. He was wearing a plum purple shirt underneath, long-sleeved with shiny cufflinks. They were quite nice - some type of precious metal, John supposed. His trousers were black and accentuated the shirt quite nicely, John thought. The man obviously dressed to impress someone - who he’d want to impress at a place like this John didn’t know. The man ignored the bed and settled down on the sofa in the middle of the room, his hands steepled under his chin, his elbows on his knees. He wasn’t far from the armchair that John had sat in earlier. Absentmindedly John wondered if the placement was intentional. His direct gaze made John feel like a bug under a microscope and John narrowed his eyes in response.

John felt a brief flash of victory when the man seemed reluctant to answer. “Your haircut says former military - it’s the right style yet not maintained, it’s grown out quite a bit and become scruffy. The way you make your bed also indicates your military background. The state of your tan indicates that you came back quite some time ago - it’s nearly faded. Six months, eight months tops. The faint tan lines around your wrist and your eyes indicate that it wasn’t for pleasure. You have a cane in your baggage, although you may not have noticed it yet since you didn’t put it there. You have a limp, although it’s likely psychosomatic. You had no problem leaping about when I startled you. You carry yourself differently - your shoulder pains you. The injury that invalided you home likely originated there. Now, the cane. There’s an engraving on the handle - to John, from Harry. Harry. Likely a brother, possibly a cousin. Although if you had an abundance of close relatives, it’s unlikely you’d end up here.”

A flash of pain - so brief John wondered if he had imagined it - darted across the man’s face. “Thus, a brother. Not a close one, since you’re not staying with him. Obviously cares for you, thus the gift. Then there’s Mike, whom I observed muttering about how nice it would be to have a doctor in my flat. Military, recently back, invalided home, recent deployment to a combat zone, estranged sibling, medical background - Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John stared at the man, his eyes widening in surprise. “That’s brilliant.”

“Obvious,” he said, although there were small spots of color blossoming on his cheeks. “That’s not what people normally say,” he muttered. He hadn’t moved from where he was sitting, his eyes intently focused on John.

“What do they normally say?” John inquired blandly. He had absolutely no idea what constituted normal in the situation they were in. If the other man had a book, John would gladly do anything he could to borrow it.

“Piss off,” the other man said, a slight chuckle escaping his lips. John couldn’t help but laugh in response.

“I could see where that could offend people, yeah,” he said, a proper smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What is your name, anyway?” It was the lightest John had felt in months.

“Sherlock Holmes.” The taller man smiled briefly before he laid down on the couch, his lean body taking up the entire length with ease.

“John Watson.” John sat on the bed still, staring at Sherlock, who hadn’t moved. The silence felt awkward to John. What did he say? Why were you in a shelter? Who beat you so badly that it landed you here?

“I was kidnapped and held for ten months by a man who fancied me.” Sherlock’s voice broke the quiet in its deadpan fashion. John flinched, and inwardly he cursed himself for doing so. The curly-haired man’s eyes were focused on the ceiling. John watched, fascinated, as Sherlock’s eyes roamed the ceiling, seeming to explore every little nook and cranny.

“Hmm,” John murmured, non-committal. “When is dinner?”

“Twenty minutes ago,” Sherlock answered, looking vaguely annoyed. Not giving it another thought, John stood up and reached for the cane Sherlock had pointed out in his belongings. It had indeed been a gift from Harry, although he had forgotten it was there until Sherlock had drawn his attention to it. “Was I right?”

John looked at him, vaguely surprised at the return to the original topic. Was he really not going to pry? Clearing his throat, he settled the cane in his hand, a nervous habit. “I was invalided home from Afghanistan eight months and seventeen days ago. Shot in the shoulder. Harry and I don’t talk much. I was an army doctor.”

“Hah!” Sherlock’s fists clenched and John watched him with some sort of detached amusement. “I was right.”

“Harry, however. Harry is short for Harriet.”

“A sister!” Sherlock exclaimed, sitting up. “A sister! How did I miss that?”

“Right, well, I’m going for tea. Are you coming?” He glanced at the taller man expectantly. Sherlock was sprawled haphazardly along the length of the couch now, apparently frustrated.

“Eating is boring. Digesting is a distraction.” Waving a hand dismissively at the shorter man, Sherlock quickly steepled his fingers back under his chin. He was staring at the ceiling. John watched him for a few seconds longer. The icy blue eyes refocused on John again. “There’s probably some food in the fridge. I was defrosting some chicken earlier for an experiment and got distracted.” Sherlock exhaled slowly, patiently. “There’s the cafeteria if you would prefer that, of course. Which you wouldn’t. So stay here.”

John gaped at him. Of course Sherlock would be able to tell that John wasn’t enamoured with the idea of mingling with people for food. To be totally honest he wasn’t exactly in love with with the idea of spending however long he was stuck at Asylum with the intense man, but one took one’s victories where one could. It could be much worse. Then again, with the list of things Sherlock knew already, John wasn’t wholly surprised. “Oh.” John limped back into the kitchenette, his free hand opening and closing various doors as he examined what they had available to them. There wasn’t much, but there was enough for a simple meal. Deciding on a stir fry, he gathered the ingredients and settled them on the counter. The combination of the cane and his PTSD made it an awkward exercise - hypervigilance and pain warring for domination made it difficult to get around the kitchen. For being just a small kitchenette, the kitchen equipment was high quality, he mused, pulling out a knife to chop up the vegetables and turning on the oven stovetop.

“There’s tea in the top left cupboard.” Sherlock’s voice startled John.

“You’d like some, I take it?” John’s hand was already reaching for the named cupboard and he examined the containers decorating the inside. It was easy to tell that the owner of Asylum was a posh British bloke. There was barely any food in the flat, yet there was quite a bit of expensive tea.

“No.”

“Then why did you…” John shook his head, exasperated. He stopped briefly to switch on the kettle. Pulling out the defrosted chicken he cooked dinner quickly and efficiently. He surveyed the results with a mild sense of satisfaction. It wasn’t perfect but it was edible. John ate it standing in the kitchen, propping himself up against the counter. Once he finished he stored the dishes in the sink. He could clean them later. The silence felt awkward to him. Sherlock had told him why he was there - the barebones of it, anyway. What did he say in this kind of situation - “Oh, I’m here because my previous girlfriend beat the shit out of me and I had nowhere else to go?” The thought made John flinch and it was only when he noticed Sherlock’s eyes on him that he realized he must have said it out loud. “I’m, going to shower.” John went through the motions of gathering his toiletries and his pyjamas, feeling Sherlock’s gaze on the back of his neck.

John’s bad shoulder twinged in accompaniment with his leg, rapidly souring John’s mood. Why had he opened his mouth? He knew nothing about the git in there. He wasn’t abused. He deserved what she gave him, after all. He was just a bad boyfriend. Unfit for her. She deserved so much better, but she had chosen him, damaged as he was. He grimaced as he rubbed his aching leg before shoving all of the thoughts back into the back corner of his mind chained off for such - rubbish.

Not that he cared, anyways. His fists clenched automatically before he forced his body to relax. It was not the war zone. It was not home with - with her. John’s mind shut down before he allowed himself to think as much of her as her name. It wasn’t worth it, he told himself firmly. She was the past. He hoped. Regardless of what she was, the confusion she had caused was not worth it. Not when it came with - with everything else she offered. He stared at his reflection the mirror in the rather plush bathroom. There were circles under his eyes and he looked more ragged than he had in a long time. However, it wasn’t as bad as it had been when he was in the military, so he still considered it an improvement. As bad as his situation was, it was better than being shot at. Or punched.

Pulling off his jumper and cotton undershirt, he folded them neatly and placed them on the counter. Consulting the mirror again, he winced at the sight of the large bruises still peppering his abdomen with their myriad splotches of colour. There was the blue and purple of the rather new ones mottled with the yellow-brown of those on their way to healing over. Combined with the scar tissue on his shoulder, he hardly made the picture of a desirable mate. His laugh was sarcastic, self-deprecating. Dropping his trousers and his pants, he folded those and sat them to the side. Especially being in a new place, he felt it essential to establish a routine as quickly as possible. Turning the water on, he waited for it to heat up before stepping under the spray.

He shampooed his hair and washed himself quickly, clinically going over his bruises and identifying a possible fractured rib. It had probably been missed when he was at the hospital. His mind ticked over his belongings, identifying anything that could be potentially used as a wrap and then discarding the idea before it merited further thought. He couldn’t risk the infection immobilizing his chest could bring on. John had to force himself to refrain from laughing at the extremely surreal situation. Here he was, in the middle of nowhere, in some secret posh British home for men-with-nowhere-to-go. He still remembered waking up in the hospital, in the ER. The strange man in a suit, who offered him a place to stay. High off his rocker on pain meds, John agreed. The man had left a brochure behind. John had thumbed through it later, once he was in the bed he would stay in for two weeks or so while the remainder of his injuries healed.

The water went cold and John shivered and turned it off. He had gotten lost in thought. Towelling himself off roughly, he dressed in his pyjamas. Normally he slept in his boxers, but he was conscious of the healing bruises - and of the well-dressed, posh roommate. He didn’t want to risk rolling onto some sharp quirk of the mattress that would jab harder without the thin cotton barrier. Wearing a t-shirt and loose, cotton pyjama pants, he brushed his teeth before leaving the bathroom. Standing in the doorway, John took a minute to glance over his half of the room.

“Someone didn’t clean this,” John muttered, limping over to the dresser and taking a closer look at the partially-opened drawers.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Sherlock remarked just as John caught a wave of the stench emanating from the furniture.

“Eugggh! What is that?” John gasped, plugging his nose as he staggered backwards. He nearly tripped in his effort to remove himself from the presence of whatever was in the drawers.

“Testing the efficacy of mothballs.” John watched Sherlock lift himself up from the couch and wander lazily over to John’s furniture.

“In my dresser? Sherlock.” John’s dark blue eyes met Sherlock’s icy blue, puzzlement and irritation mingling in a swirl of emotions. His earlier explosion and shame forgotten, John propped his hands on his hips. “You can’t just use other people’s furniture.”

“Mine has my clothes in it.” Sherlock crouched down in front of John, the strange eyes taking in every little detail of the mothballs and other assorted - things - in the drawers in front of him. He frowned, straightening up and waving a dismissive hand. “You can dispose of them. They are useless.”

“Why don’t you do it? You put it in there,” John muttered, tracking Sherlock’s movements with his eyes. He could’ve sworn there was the tiniest hint of a smirk on Sherlock’s face.

“Boring.” Sherlock walked back over to the sofa and flopped down onto it. He curled up into a ball with his back towards John, seemingly absorbed in the couch cushions. John stared at him for a few more seconds before limping over to the corner where his cane stood. If he was going to make the trip to dispose of the wretched mothball experiment, he’d need the support of the cane that Harry bought him.

How did he get stuck with such a bizarre flatmate? John wondered to himself. He gripped the cane, limping back over to the chest of drawers with a bag clutched in his good hand. He bent down awkwardly, scooping the contents into the bag and checking the nooks and crannies of each drawer to prevent future hazards.

“You’re the first one to stay longer than ten minutes.” Sherlock’s baritone voice, passive and flat, echoed loudly in the silent room. John straightened with a grimace, the hand holding the bag absentmindedly massaging his thigh muscle.

“The first what?” he asked. Sherlock couldn’t be serious. John could practically feel Sherlock rolling his eyes from across the room.

“Don’t be stupid, John.” Sherlock’s voice was dripping with disdain. “The first roommate. Obviously.”

John stood there and eyed Sherlock warily. The voice in the back of his head told him he’d been doing a rather lot of that lately, and that he needed to stop. John ignored it. “You’re staring,” Sherlock snapped. If John hadn’t known better, he would have almost said that the man was self-conscious. Which was a ridiculous proposition, as even to John’s untrained eyes, he was gorgeous. The pale, milky skin, the tailored outfits, the ridiculous curls - not to mention those eyes, that could tear a man down in seconds. If he was interested - which he wasn’t - Sherlock would have been his type to a tee.

He wasn’t. Interested, that was. John’s face twisted into a frown, before rapidly smoothing out. “I don’t see why, I suppose.” John raised his eyebrows and cocked his head at Sherlock’s drawn out, exasperated sigh.

“Idiot,” the other man muttered, the base of his palms resting on his forehead. “Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!” John watched as Sherlock drew himself up just to flop dramatically back onto the sofa.

“Right, well. I’m going to bed.” Limping over to his neatly made bed, he flicked the switch on the side. Immediately the lamp closest to John’s bed turned off, plunging the room into shadowy twilight. Almost like himself, John mused briefly before shaking himself out of his reverie. “There enough light for you?” Sherlock made a noncommittal noise John decided to interpret as a yes. He pulled back the covers and slid between them. He tossed and turned for a while before settling down in the half-foetal position that had become natural for him the past few months. The bed was surprisingly comfy, John noted with interest. The pillow was soft and cradled his head and neck in exactly the right spots. He burrowed into it, his eyes closing.

Night was always the hardest time, John mused. All the thoughts at once - everything flashing and whirling and the nightmares and the night terrors. Although John was not horribly perceptive, it was often difficult for him to turn off his mind when he had a bad day. Images and thoughts just kept coming. Making a fist, John socked himself in the head, trying to convince the thoughts to leave him alone. Shivers ran down his spine as he curled closer into himself, falling into a fitful sleep.

Next thing he knew he was awake. Angelie was there, her dark brown eyes boring into John’s as she stared cruelly at him. He cringed and drew closer into himself, hoping, hoping it would end. “You’re a horrible boyfriend, John,” she said silkily, her voice sending waves of fear down John’s spine. “If you wouldn’t make goo goo eyes at every tramp that passed by, I wouldn’t have to punish you like this.” A sharp blow to John’s kidneys, another hit on his ribs. John felt like he couldn’t get enough air in - like he was drowning. His breath was coming in short, sudden gasps whenever her leg connected with his ribs.

He was sobbing now, his whole body shaking and writhing as the jabs connected with his sensitive skin. Bruises mottled his ribs, thighs, and upper arms, most half healed. That meant the digs hurt more than they normally would. He tried to fight the tears - he knew she liked them, that she seemed to get off on his pain. He had fought several battles in Afghanistan. He had seen several people die. He had seen even more suffer, had been made to hold shredded pieces together of various bodies and pray that he would make it to a hospital in time to save them. He had faced death himself - a refugee with a gun held to his forehead, and his only defence was a prayer. John had made it out, albeit with a bum shoulder and a limp he couldn’t leave behind.

However, here, in the face of a relatively petite five foot four woman, one that was arguably beating him, he had nothing. She was everything. She was his everything. He was broken - he didn’t deserve anything else. She was good for him. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, his arms curled protectively over his ribcage. The hospital had asked too many questions after the last time she broke one of his ribs. The next time Angelie had insisted that he bring home enough medical supplies from his office to treat his own wounds. She had mocked him for that, too. John had referred every patient with broken or bruised ribs to a colleague after that, unable to trust his own judgment.

Abruptly, the jabs ended the same time John heard a massive crack. The mirror had shattered, there was an explosion - no, no, not an explosion, a gunshot - John’s heart seemed to stop in his chest as a small, dark hole appeared on Angelie’s forehead and her body collapsed, boneless, on the floor. Unable to stop himself, bruises and all, he crawled over to her.

Trembling fingers trailed through the blood, smearing it through her light hair. The stark red against the blonde, the vivid contrast, made it real. John’s heart had clued back into the proceedings and was vigorously hammering away in his chest. The brown eyes that had been turned against him in anger, in hate, were now blank, staring endlessly at nothing - nothing that John would ever see. Cold all over, John laid her out on the floor, wordlessly starting CPR. There was nothing he could do. Nothing he should do. The doctor in him, no matter how badly beaten, knew he had to try.

John’s hands froze mid-compression, icy fear trickling down his spine. What was he doing? This wasn’t real. He knew it wasn’t real. What was happening? Angelie was - was a long time ago. If one considered two weeks a lengthy period. She’d never been shot. She was alive and well with - with what’s his name, anyway. John had refused to press charges - the shame was too much. John stared down at the blood covering his hands, his eyes wide in shock and fear. He looked towards the body underneath his hands only to realize that it was gone. It was just him. Him and the dark, never ending pools of blood, sucking him in. He was drowning, drowning in the sultry red liquid that haunted most of his nightmares.

Gasping, John bolted out of bed so rapidly that he ended up on the floor, his legs tangled in the sweat-soaked sheets. His heart was pounding mercilessly in his chest, his breath escaping in fluttering, choked sobs of anguish. He fought to regain some control over himself, over his actions. It was a nightmare, John reminded himself, the adrenaline pumping madly through his nervous system, every nerve screaming to - to fight. No, to run. To fight. To run. John fought to stand, speedily realizing that he was shaking too badly to even hope to untangle the sheets he was twined in.

He gave into the fear, into the anxiety, into the nightmare, and just laid there. There was nothing he could do until his body spent itself, until the shudders of adrenaline cleared themselves from his system. The neurotransmitters would clear relatively quickly once the threat had passed. The threat that wasn’t even real. Angelie was gone. Afghanistan was - was months passed. He wasn’t some new boy who had nightmares over the death of a single civilian - he was an army doctor who held shattered lives together and sewed together sobbing soldiers in a field of death.

“You had a nightmare.” The baritone voice was soft, hesitant. John merely glanced over at Sherlock, dully accepting of the fact that his worst nightmare in months had been witnessed by a near stranger.

“Yes.” John ran a sweaty palm through his hair, trying to smooth the damp strands into something that didn’t look like a hedgehog on crack. “I do have those.” Sherlock seemed to consider this, his eyes taking in John’s every feature, his every movement. John was sitting sprawled on the floor by his bed. His body was more relaxed, now. Although his legs were still tangled in the sheets, his fingernails were no longer cutting bloody crescents in the flesh of his palms. His pupils were constricting back to their normal size in the dark, his respirations slowing.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and laid back down on the sofa. John stared at him for a few more seconds, feeling the last surges of chaotic adrenaline leaving his system. He couldn’t help but be just a tiny bit grateful for a roommate who shrugged off that kind of event with such nonchalance. John had had experience sleeping with those who described what his prior nightmares were like. This one had been a bad one, and he couldn’t even stand the thought of how long he’d been talking or thrashing about in his sleep. Before meeting Angelie, he had stayed with some of his medical school friends. Maybe this whole situation wouldn’t be so bad after all. He snorted at the thought. Nothing more awkward than having a massive nightmare in front of someone he’d known for two hours.

John got his breathing under control, testing his legs occasionally to see if he would be able to slip out of the sheet’s grasp. Finally he was able to stand without fearing his legs would slip out from underneath him. Grabbing his cane and hobbling over to the closet with the spare sheets, John stripped his sweat-soaked ones and remade his bed. After a second of thought, he moved the rug closer to the edge of his mattress in case he had another nightmare. The rug would provide at least some comfort against the hard floor.

It was only once all order had been restored that John was able to crawl back into his bed. He had even changed pyjamas so the sweat-soaked cotton of his clothes wouldn’t cling to the fresh sheets. Hopefully it would be enough to allow him to sleep. While John had been released to go to Asylum, he was still physically and emotionally recovering from his ordeal. John brushed the thought aside automatically. He wasn’t broken. The war had done some things to his head - that was for certain. War did bad things to good people. That alone was common sense. Angelie wasn’t part of it.

Why was he up at only God knows when thinking about this? John had long given up trying to find a reason for his sporadic insomnia. He had heard somewhere that it wasn’t uncommon in those who had seen combat. Hypervigilance and all, he supposed. Finally, he was able to bully himself into a fitful doze, only minutely more comforting than it was restoring.

John groaned and stretched as the light seeping through the window hit his face. The blinds must have been closed when John arrived the day before, that’s why he hadn’t noticed the bloody thing. He pulled the pillow out from underneath him and smooshed it over his face in protest. A hand reached out and plucked the pillow away from him. Sherlock’s face came into view, scrutinizing him clinically.

“Breakfast?” John yawned, rubbing his eyes. Maybe a good night’s sleep had improved the mood of the odd man that shared his room. Bleary eyes cleared as Sherlock moved out of his range of vision, only to see a fully-dressed Sherlock perching back on the sofa as if he hadn’t moved all night. The only difference was the clothes - and the fact he had John’s pillow in his hands. “Did you sleep at all?” John inquired politely.

“No.” Sherlock’s voice was dismissive, an answer to both questions. Slightly stung, John pulled off his covers and reached for the dressing gown perched on the edge of his bed. He examined it, noting its similarities to the one he wore at home.

“Well, the more for me,” he said, a hand reaching for the cane leaning against his dresser. John smoothed the dressing gown, noting how easily it slid over his skin. It was a comforting sensation to John, full of memories of a happier time. Regaining his grip on the cane, John thumped over to the kitchenette and began assembling a quick, simple breakfast. “You need to eat.”

“No.” A pale hand flapped briefly in his direction before returning to Sherlock’s chin. John frowned, pausing mid-motion to turn back towards Sherlock.

“Are you feeling okay?” John paused, cataloguing mentally to see if he had brought any of his medical supplies with him to Asylum. He hadn’t - that he knew of - but he could easily manage a brief physical exam without his equipment. John took a step in Sherlock’s direction before Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh.

“My metabolism has adjusted to a lack of food. I don’t eat that often. Digesting is boring - it slows me down.” Sherlock’s dismissal was obvious. John narrowed his eyes, sensing a challenge.

“You still need to eat. Your body won’t have energy otherwise, and you’ll start burning muscle -” John’s voice was cut off when Sherlock sat up. Crystal blue eyes were glaring malevolently in his direction.

“Yes, Dr. Watson, I am well aware of what happens when normal humans don’t eat food,” Sherlock snapped. John’s internal concern meter kicked up a notch. He could feel himself slipping into the persona of Captain John Watson, MD.

“Then you’ll eat something,” John said bluntly, his hand on his hip. He turned his back on Sherlock before he could protest, turning back to the kitchen and surveying the refrigerator. It was emitting somewhat of an odd smell. “What did you put in here, anyways?” John reached out and grabbed the handle, opening it with one swift move. “Did you know there are - oh god - are those eyes?”

Sherlock walked into view and poked his head into the fridge. “Mm, yes, those are human eyes.” He stuck a hand inside and pulled out the container, whirling the top off and sniffing them cautiously. “I don’t know how they got in there.” John started to relax. They could dispose of it, John could write it off as a one-time thing, and they could get along with their weird lives. “They were supposed to be in the microwave with the fingers.”

“The fingers?” John asked mildly. He was surprised that he was able to keep his voice as steady as he was. “What were you up to last night while I slept?”

“It’s an experiment, John.” Sherlock shrugged dismissively, an oh-you-peasant gesture that made John want to punch him. John had a feeling that it was a sentiment he would experience often around Sherlock. The man seemed to have the kind of personality that made people want to physically injure him. “For science.”

“Science requires that you keep fingers and - and eyes in microwave? Why the microwave?” John’s gaze flicked back towards the refrigerator now, attempting to find something edible. “There’s practically nothing in here.” He paused, looking at Sherlock. “What the hell did you do last night? There was food here yesterday.”

“I’m sure there’s something.” Sherlock’s face was uncomfortably close to John’s for a few moments, the cold blue eyes clinically sweeping the contents of the refrigerator. “Oh, I had forgotten about the toes. You can throw those out.” Sherlock closed the refrigerator (nearly hitting John in the face) and walked off, his luxurious dressing gown flying behind him. John stared at him, his mouth dropped slightly open. “Do close your mouth, John. You look like a fish.”

“How long have they been in there?” John asked, readjusting his grip on his cane to give him something to do with his hands. “They were people, Sherlock. They deserve some amount of respect rather than just forgetting them in some dark part of the fridge.” For some reason, the body parts in the fridge made him angry. Irrationally, likely. All those people - they were more than the sum of their parts. Was this - was it some part of what had happened? Absurd emotions that came up at totally inappropriate times? It was none of John’s business what Sherlock did with body parts in his spare time, and John accepted that.

The calmer, rational part of John took control over his body and John could feel a sensation like cold water rolling down his skin. It was soothing. He didn’t like being so quick to anger - so powerless over his own emotions, tossed raggedly about like a drowning victim being buffeted by the waves.

Sherlock was motionless and silent for a few long seconds before he got up and shuffled over. He forced the refrigerator door open before reaching in and re-arranging some petri dishes. Sherlock removed a few with particularly suspicious-looking chunks that John didn’t allow himself to examine before he pointedly gestured to the rubbish bin. Sherlock threw them into the bin with a dramatic crash of glass breaking. Without another word Sherlock stalked back to his couch and threw himself dramatically back down onto it. John smiled faintly. Sherlock looked like an overgrown toddler who was throwing a tantrum because his mum had told him to pick up a toy.

“Stay there and fuss all you want, but you’re still eating something for breakfast.” John threw him a disapproving glance as Sherlock wrapped his dressing gown farther around himself and sulked into the sofa. Rolling his eyes, John searched the cupboards, looking for anything edible. It seemed to be a losing battle. He pursed his lips, exasperated, and sighed, settling back against the counter. “How do you get food, anyway?” Silence emanated from the sofa. “Oh, come off it, you git. You’re not a child.”

John gave up after a few moments and limped over to where his clothes sat on the floor, rustling through his pockets. He had dropped them on the floor after his shower. “Hey, where is my mobile?” Turning in time to see a hand raised holding the offending device, John raised his eyebrows. “When’d you take that?”

“While you were sleeping. I was bored.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled by the sofa curtains and John wondered just how far into the cushions he had pushed himself. John walked over and grabbed the phone. Sherlock’s pale underarm was bared for a few seconds, long enough for John to catch a glimpse of something he did not wish to ever see on a human being. “What are those?” he demanded, his voice harsher than he intended. Sherlock’s arm disappeared into the lump that was now projecting emotional walls bigger than the Great Wall of China.

“Bugger off.” Sherlock’s voice was ragged. After a few seconds, Sherlock got up from the sofa and stormed out of the room in his dressing gown. John was left standing in the room, silent and shocked, his eyes wide, his thoughts derailed.

On Sherlock’s wrists were interlocking, crisscrossed, haphazard scars and scabs. Some were new, possibly days old. Some were old. Track marks - some relatively recent - were mapped out frighteningly close to the slashes. They were so thin as to be unnoticeable unless you came up close and saw the patterns. John’s blood ran cold. From force of habit he walked to the kitchenette and put on the kettle for tea. He would deal with it when Sherlock returned.


	2. I Hope the Actions Speak the Words They Can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Up a day early! You can follow me at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com) for previews and commentary and the like.
> 
> This chapter was a beast to edit.

Sherlock did not come back. Despite looking into the nooks and crannies between his daily activities, John didn’t catch a glimpse of him. It was worrisome. Some of the scars were recent. Although none of them appeared deep enough to nick an artery, those who were addicted to self-mutilation often continued to cut longer and deeper the more they cut. John pushed the thoughts out of his mind. He had to focus, to convince the horde of therapists that Asylum had him face that he was fine and that he knew what he was doing. That he didn’t need to be there. The war messed everyone up - no one was spared from its grasp.

John had discovered that Asylum was broken down into several houses. The houses generally housed four to six people and were commonly referred to as ‘pods’. John lived in pod B with Sherlock and two other men. He didn’t remember their names. A short conversation with them had, however, showed John the ropes when it came to acquiring food and other resources he’d need at Asylum. Asylum had its own mart just a few hundred feet from their flat. There was a leisure centre next to the mart, and even a pool. John’s eyes had nearly popped out of his head at the pool. What kind of - whatever in the hell Asylum’s official title was - had a pool?

John didn’t bother exploring much beyond the super market. He had been hoping that Sherlock would be back in the flat when he returned. Having spent the afternoon at the mart, John had returned laden with enough food to feed both Sherlock and himself for a week. He was also careful to purchase a more in-depth first-aid kid. After thinking for a few seconds he purchased more antiseptic. If one of the cuts ever got infected, it could have disastrous consequences for Sherlock. The next task was the hardest - braving their kitchen again.

He frowned as he opened the refrigerator door. Someone - Sherlock - had put in the effort to tidy it up a bit. It was still emitting the funny smell that had been present that morning, but it wasn’t strong enough to actively induce vomiting in anyone who happened to encounter it. He peered closer at a container on the top shelf before realizing that there were eyes floating in what was presumably formaldehyde staring back at him. This time, however, the container was sealed carefully and marked in some gibberish that John assumed made sense to Sherlock. There were a few other meticulously sealed containers containing various bits and pieces that John didn’t really care to take much time identifying. Carefully he picked up the sealed containers, moving them to the top shelf. Sherlock could store his experiments there without disrupting the rest of the kitchen.

It took a far shorter amount of time than John had been anticipating to stock the kitchen with food. He didn’t cook often, but sometimes he enjoyed throwing things together from scratch. Sherlock didn’t seem to eat much of anything, so John was determined to get what food he could into him and have it be at least partially nutritious. The remnants of takeaway he had noted in the depths of the refrigerator prior definitely didn’t fall into that category.

Rearranging the knives on the counter sent a chill down John’s spine as the memory of what he had seen the night before flashed to the forefront of his mind. The white scars, barely lighter than the skin they decorated, mingled like lovers with the dark red of the healing scabs. Contusions surrounded some of the deeper lacerations, the brown-green of healing bruises interrupted by the scars in their depths. Underneath the mass of scars, cuts, and bruises were puncture wounds and the remnants of old track marks. As a GP John had encountered both drug addicts and those who cut themselves for a variety of reasons but he had never met one who combined them. He snorted at the thought. He had never met anyone like Sherlock, whether they cut or not. He was most definitely one of a kind. Thank god, for humanity’s sake.

“I presume you’ll want a new room assignment.” Sherlock’s voice was like ice, the words staccato, void of emotion. John crossed his arms over his jumper, taking the time and the focus of the deliberate action to get his racing heart beat under control. He had not even heard Sherlock arrive, had not heard the door open. Frightening John rarely ended satisfactorily for either party, yet there was something about Sherlock that set off impulses more protective than deadly.

“Why would you say that?” John inquired, his tone mild.

“You seemed quite distraught earlier.” Sherlock’s mouth twisted on the last word into something John would call a sneer on someone far less attractive. Sherlock resembled a sullen child who felt they had been wronged rather than an angry adult. John shrugged.

“It’s only expected you’d have some baggage like the rest of us, or you wouldn’t be here.” Pausing to survey the fully stocked kitchen, he let a smile show at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, without me, all this food would go to waste. Hungry yet?” John walked to the sink and crouched down, pulling out the first-aid kit and placing it on the counter with a single, fluid motion. It was then that he realized his leg had allowed him to do that and he gripped the counter, his knuckles pale. He was thrown out of his contemplation when he heard Sherlock move. “I got a first-aid kit. A good one,” he clarified. “I want to look at the cuts.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sherlock was avoiding his direct gaze, his hands unconsciously balling into fists.

“I just want to make sure they’re clean, Sherlock,” John cajoled.

“I already cleaned them.” Sherlock’s eyes flickered towards the bathroom. John followed his gaze, limping slightly yet determined to ignore it. Below the sink there was a partially-used bottle of antiseptic and John smiled in relief.

“If you run a fever or one of your cuts shows signs or symptoms of infection, come to me, please.” John looked at Sherlock, willing the stubborn man to at least look at him. If Sherlock said yes John would be surprised, but any answer indicated a sign that they were moving in the right direction.

Sherlock stared at him for a few long seconds. It was heady and nearly arousing, having all of Sherlock’s attention focused in John’s direction. It was like John was being stripped naked, all of the thoughts he had ever had laid bare for Sherlock to see. Sherlock let out a derisive snort, stalking over to the sofa and throwing himself down upon it. Yet it wasn’t a no.

John grinned, already planning the dinner. It felt like the first victory he’d had all day. It felt even better when Sherlock ate some of the soup that John had thrown together. John had watched him eat closely over his own bowl, seeing what Sherlock seemed to savour and what he seemed to leave behind. As a doctor, John had grown up taking care of people. It was his identity, who he was. Taking care of Sherlock just felt like another step in the same direction - like coming back into his own skin.

After all the chaos of Angelie, after all the drama, John Watson finally felt like he was himself again. He snorted, wondering what the various therapists that populated Asylum would think of that. He wasn’t (as they would say) healed. One part of him, however - one part of the shattered little John Watson figure was finally able to glue itself to a sister piece to begin the process.

Cleaning the dishes, John stacked them up and tidied up the mess he had made throwing the soup together. There were various sets of scientific equipment littering the farther counters and the table, but John gave those up for lost. Sherlock needed his space, after all, just as John did. That Sherlock’s need for space demonstrated itself in a way that was different from John’s was of no consequence.

John walked over to the small bookshelves littering the sides of the room and surveyed them, looking for something good to read. The store had a small bookstore attached and John had picked up a few that had sounded interesting, but Sherlock had several bookshelves lining the walls and John was always interested in finding something new to read. Sherlock seemed like the quiet type and a book would keep John from wanting to break the peace that lingered in the air.

Reminded of Sherlock, John looked up as the man leapt up from the couch and stalked over to a small stand near his bed. On it was some kind of instrument case and John watched Sherlock, curious. The long, pale hands were tender and nearly reverent as Sherlock pulled out a violin from the case, rosining the bow quickly before settling the violin on his shoulder. John tore his gaze away from the ethereal man and focused back on the bookshelf. The books were mostly classics, he noted with interest, several of them old editions.

“There are newer ones over on the other side.” Sherlock jerked his head towards another bookshelf, his eyes oddly flat. The bow was perched on the strings of the violin, his hand holding it deftly in the correct position. John nodded and smiled his thanks before he walked over, the majority of his attention focused on his unpredictable flatmate. For some reason, John didn’t doubt that Sherlock could handle a violin. He was rewarded seconds later when rich, beautiful music emanated from the strings as Sherlock began to play.

John gave each book a cursory examination and picked one that sounded interesting. John settled down on his bed, his back against the wall and legs spread in front of him, able to easily see Sherlock with just a small turn of his head. This way he could listen and read at the same time. The book was interesting - some old time murder mystery written by an author John had never heard of. He liked mysteries. “It was the Pope.” John looked up at Sherlock, not having heard the music stop. “The murderer. It was the Pope. Obviously.”

John sighed, tucking a slip of paper from his bedside into the book to hold his place. “I should have known you’d read the book before.”

“I haven’t.” Sherlock shrugged elegantly, a lithe ripple of muscle. “I haven’t read any of the ones on that shelf. They’re boring.”

“Then how did you know?” John looked a bit puzzled, then closed his eyes briefly, exasperated. He opened them to face Sherlock once more. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“You’re not angry.” It wasn’t a question. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You pity me. The scars.”

“You’re not making any sense,” John pointed out. He settled the book on his lap, his hands resting on top of it. “I don’t pity you. The scars are none of my business.”

“Yet you want to know.” Sherlock’s gaze was ice cold. John watched the taller man, this time with a clinical scrutiny. There was something else going on, something John had only seen a hint of. He knew it was likely he would never see more than that with how closed off Sherlock was. If he took out his emotional scars on his physical body, he likely had a host of bad memories to draw from to provoke whatever emotions he wanted to. Yet the fear John saw was real.

John exhaled slowly, his body deliberately casual. “I’m human. But.” He raised a hand, stopping Sherlock before he could open his mouth. “I don’t want you to tell me.” Sherlock’s lips twisted into a sneer and John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not for the reasons you’re thinking - do you always think so negatively about yourself?” demanded John, leaning forward slightly. He hadn’t moved off of the bed.

Sherlock’s scowl hadn’t left his face. Savagely he forced his expression to straighten out into its normal blank caricature, grabbing his bow, lifting the violin to his shoulder and attacking the strings with the well-rosined bow. This time it wasn’t the gentle melody John had heard him play, but something dark and painful. John watched him silently, lost in his own thoughts. Sherlock didn’t stop playing. John wasn’t able to finish what he had said. Finally, he laid down under the covers and sank into a restless sleep.

John woke up on the floor again. This time he had stripped his bed bare, the covers twined about him like a lover. He had soaked the sheets with his sweat and they clung damply to his body. Groaning, he realized Sherlock was watching him from the other side of the room. This continued for over a week - the same routine. John would wake up, the covers either twined about him or spread across his half of the room. John was uncomfortable to discover that he often woke up after a nightmare expecting to see Sherlock watching him. The light blue eyes had gone from frightening to comforting.

Between the two of them they fell into something resembling a routine. John would cook breakfast and then go to the rubbish they called therapy. Next John came back for lunch, always with his favorite tea. Sometimes Sherlock would be there. Sometimes he would not. John wasn’t sure what he got up to when he wasn’t at the flat. It wasn’t his place to ask. Despite that, John always kept an eye out when he was moving between buildings, hoping for a glance of his silent flatmate.

Dinner would follow. Sometimes he would stay in. Sometimes the other men in their house would invite him out to chat in the main hall of the leisure centre while others played table football or air hockey. Whether or not John went depended on not only John’s mood, but Sherlock’s as well. Frequently John didn’t feel safe leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts. He didn’t know what went on in the recalcitrant man’s head, but he doubted much of it was good.

John rubbed his thigh absentmindedly and then stopped. The pain in his leg was slowly easing up. While he would still use the cane after his nightmares, he often forgot the cane when he left for the day. John had noticed a correlation he wasn’t completely comfortable with. The more he thought about Sherlock, the less his leg hurt. Focusing on Sherlock was helping him take his mind off of his own problems. Or the problems everyone assumed that he had.

John had been at Asylum for nearly a month the night he got a visitor. Sherlock had been absent nearly the entire day and John was starting to worry. Although the man rarely spoke and was curt and rude most of the time, John had gotten used to his naturally acerbic personality. It was who he was. John guessed, deep down, that Sherlock had been hurt - badly. He seemed so unconcerned about what had happened, but John was uncomfortably familiar with defence mechanisms. It was a natural response to retreat like he had.

There was a knock at the door. John frowned, thrown out of his thoughts. Sherlock never knocked. John wondered if he knew that people did it as a common courtesy. John figured that Sherlock knew all of the human idiosyncrasies but ignored them in favor of appearing mysterious and untouchable. He walked over and opened the door. Narrowing his eyes at who stood there, he left his hand on the doorknob. “Can I help you?” he inquired politely of the suit-clad man standing at the entrance. The man’s ghost blue eyes took in John’s pyjamas and mussed up hair, eerily reminiscent of Sherlock. There was none of the warmth that Sherlock tried so hard to hide. This man was pure ice.

“Dr. John Watson?” The man’s eyes held John in place. It took an uncomfortable amount of time for John to break himself out of their spell.

“Who wants to know?” John shifted into his army demeanour, his posture as threatening as it could be while still glued to the door. He felt his shoulders tense up and he lifted his head fractionally, his gaze sharpening.

“Mycroft Holmes.” The auburn-haired man extended a hand in greeting. John stared icily back and eventually the hand dropped onto the handle of the umbrella. “I am Sherlock’s brother. Since he is not currently here, I was hoping we could continue this conversation inside. I do not desire the entire world to hear what I have to say, much less the other members of your charming residence.” Mycroft looked expectantly at John, who was merely willing his brain to catch up to the current conversation. Slowly John let go of the door and walked a few steps back into the room. Mycroft walked in and closed the door behind him, a polite smile on his face.

John automatically headed towards the kitchen. “Tea?” he asked. Mycroft nodded and John scrounged briefly for an appropriate blend of tea before settling on something he felt would soothe the inevitable headache brought on by a Holmes. At least this one appeared to talk, he thought with a slight grin. That was an improvement. John filled and flipped the electric kettle on, placing the tea bags into the mugs he had pulled down from the cupboard.

“So what is your relationship with Sherlock?” Mycroft was blunt, his fingers laced together in a way that reminded John of Sherlock. John’s mouth twisted slightly in recognition. The Holmes brothers physically looked very little alike. Sherlock was all gawky and angles, like a puppet who had been played with too much. Mycroft looked as if he had never allowed anyone to play him a day in his life. Prim and proper down to the tips of his extremities, he oozed authority and wore power as if it was sewn into every thread of his clothing.

“We’re roommates. Flatmates, if you prefer.” The kettle went off and John poured water into the mugs, letting the tea bags steep for a few minutes before walking them over to the table.

Mycroft smiled thinly and John’s expression remained flat. His motives so far were a mystery to John, and when it came to Sherlock, John was far less fond of mysteries. He owed this man nothing, Sherlock’s brother or not. Sherlock had gone through enough. John didn’t know if the stubborn man would consider him his friend, but John was Sherlock’s friend, whether Sherlock wanted him to be or not. Sherlock needed someone willing to stand up for him and to put his best interests first, even when Sherlock didn’t consider it a necessity. “I could compensate you for information, if you wish,” Mycroft offered.

John sipped his tea, his darker eyes not leaving Mycroft’s clear ones. “I’m not going to spy on him,” he said flatly. “I’m not going to give you any more info than you already have. If you want some, you can ask him yourself. Otherwise, I would like you to leave.” He paused. “You can finish your tea, if you want.” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, yet he continued to sip the tea, John noticed. Perhaps a conditioned reflex?

“If you haven’t noticed, Sherlock doesn’t take politely to direct inquiries,” Mycroft pointed out over his mug.

“No, he doesn’t,” John agreed. He didn’t care what this man thought. “I wonder why that is.” Mycroft put down the (mostly empty, John noted) mug of tea and stared at John. His eyes bored into John’s.

“I am not one to be trifled with, John Watson.” Mycroft’s tone was ruthless. John merely crossed his arms and stared right back. “You haven’t told him why you’re here, have you?”

“That’s none of your business, what I have or have not told him,” John snapped.

“I saw your - hmm, what is her name.” Mycroft checked something on his phone. “Angelie, her name was? Your pretty young lady, just a few days ago. She seems to be doing fine.”

John said nothing and merely glared at Mycroft’s thin smile. “I wonder what Sherlock would do with that information,” the Holmes brother continued.

“I will tell him what I want to. When it matters. It doesn’t.” John uncrossed and recrossed his arms, visibly agitated.

“Then what does matter, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft’s voice was even now, baiting John.

“Someone needs to put Sherlock’s needs and wants first,” John snapped back. “Going behind his back because he won’t talk to you does nothing.”

“You’ve been in his company for a month.” Mycroft’s eyes flashed. “Please, attempt to educate me on how to handle my own brother.”

“Blood relations mean nothing.” John glared. “Obviously. If you two won’t even speak to each other and you have to attempt to bribe people to spy on him, there’s something wrong. Is that why he doesn’t keep a roommate long? How long has he been here, anyway?”

“Oh, he hasn’t told you why he’s here, then?” Mycroft’s tone was triumphant, his eyes reflecting his voice, steel-grey melded with ice-blue.

“I don’t want to know anything from you.” John stated, his commanding military voice echoing throughout the room. “You finished your tea. I’d like you to leave now, before Sherlock comes back and you upset him. I won’t give you any more information.”

“He does not want your protection, John Watson.” Mycroft stood. John tilted back in the chair, his gaze dispassionately focused on the taller man.

“No. No, he doesn’t. That’s why he needs it.” John smiled suddenly, polite. “Goodbye.”

Mycroft returned the countenance, tight-lipped, and walked out the door, closing it behind him as John sank back into the chair. He mimicked Sherlock’s usual posture, his fingers twined underneath his chin.

The door opened tentatively a few moments later, as if the person behind was afraid of what they might find. John glanced over, ensuring that it was not Mycroft returning, then closed his eyes. Slowly the door clicked shut, and John looked over a second time. Sherlock was standing there, watching John as if he was a creature from a foreign land. The eyes were hesitant, cautious - like a wild animal. John sighed and let his hands drop into his lap, leaning back in his chair. “I take it you heard that.” Sherlock nodded, tentative. He stared at John hungrily, as if he was an apparition that was going to disappear at any second. John averted his eyes from Sherlock’s gaze. It was making him self-conscious.

Sherlock eyed him a few moments longer. John was taking deep breaths, trying to force the extraneous neurotransmitters out of his nervous system so that he would be able to shake the flight or fight response that was hampering his attempts to calm down. He listened quietly as Sherlock undid his scarf and hung up his jacket, settling back into his normal routine. John shifted positions so he could watch as Sherlock walked around the flat, checking his various experiments. He seemed to have acquired several new bits of scientific equipment, including a new microscope, various toxic chemicals, and some vials that John didn’t recognize. John smiled slightly. Soon there would be no room on the table for them to eat. Not that it ever bothered Sherlock. He mostly ate on the sofa. Slept there, too. John found it ironic that Sherlock even had a bed. He never used it.

John soon became conscious of the fact that Sherlock would, periodically, stop and eye John for several moments. The looks were varied. A handful were puzzled, others seemingly attempting to deduce. There were more that John had no idea how to identify. John sighed inwardly. He didn’t know how much of the conversation Sherlock had overheard. The fact that Sherlock was acting so oddly indicated to John that he had probably heard a fair amount. Despite that, John had not expected him to go to such lengths and apparently put some thought into John’s motivations.

It was a difficult question, since John did not know exactly why he had done what he did. John didn’t like those who danced about a problem, or included those who had no business dwelling in someone else’s matters. If Mycroft wanted to know how Sherlock was doing, he needed to ask Sherlock himself. Not drag John into it, much less attempt to bribe John with money. He scowled into the mug of tea he held balanced on his lap in front of him.

“You’re about to break the handle of your mug.” Sherlock’s voice was cautious, as if John would disappear when he spoke. John forced himself to relax his grip, nodding his thanks. Sherlock examined his face again before turning back to his experiment.

“What do we have today? Toes? Fingers?” John craned his head in Sherlock’s direction, trying to see the man’s focus at the bottom of the microscope.

“Ears, actually.” Sherlock adjusted the focus ever so slightly, not turning towards John as he made a face into the scope. “The toes are resting in the freezer. I’m using them tomorrow.”

“We can’t let the toes get exhausted,” John snorted, getting up to grab a book and to settling not far from the taller man. There was a spare chair facing the table so he sat in that. He didn’t want Sherlock to think that he was running away, or ignoring him, or any kind of doomsday scenario the intelligent man might come up with. He was brilliant, that was for sure, but he wasn’t very smart when it came to people. John couldn’t help but think that it was how Sherlock had ended up at Asylum in the first place. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on that thought for long. The past was irrelevant. It mattered more what they did at Asylum than how they got there. John was slowly able to move forward, his nightmares more about the war now and less about Angelie. For that, he was grateful.

In the past, previous girlfriends had told him he talked in his sleep. John had discovered this was exacerbated by the nightmares. He didn’t want to know what Sherlock might have heard. John knew that Sherlock didn’t sleep much, so it seemed likely that he had overheard several of John’s sleep-rants by now. The thought made him cringe. “Do I talk in my sleep?” he asked before he could stop himself. Sherlock paused, a pipette held in his hand. He finished adding whatever the chemical was in the pipette to the ears under the microscope.

“A bit,” Sherlock answered. Peering closer at the ears to see if he could see any differences from where he was sitting, John waited for Sherlock to elaborate. Predictably, Sherlock didn’t. John shrugged, deciding he probably didn’t want to know. He was able to focus on his book for a few seconds before Sherlock spoke again. “You didn’t have to.”

Sherlock’s voice was so quiet and unsteady that John nearly missed it. As it was, he shifted slightly, looking at Sherlock, confused. “Pardon?”

“What you said.” Sherlock stoically refused to look at him, instead focusing on the ears underneath the microscope in front of him. He continued adjusting the knobs, dispensing a few more ccs of the fluid into the petri dish holding the flesh.

John pressed a hand to his forehead, rubbing it unconsciously. He didn’t feel like explaining it. “You need looking after,” he said finally. “Besides, I can’t imagine Mycroft braving the various refrigerated body parts to make you breakfast.” John snorted at the idea. “Much less the ones in the microwave.” He shook his head disparagingly, a slight grin on his face.

Sherlock lifted his head from the microscope, his light blue/grey eyes focused on John’s. A slight smile danced about his lips, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. After a few seconds Sherlock’s gaze returned to the microscope and he launched into an enthusiastic description of his experiment, complete with hand waving that ended up sending a piece of acid-riddled ear flying far too close to where John was reading for his liking.

After some shouting, John had gotten Sherlock to get the neutralizer to get the acid out of the carpet. Sherlock had not even had the decency to look sheepish and John rolled his eyes. He doubted it would be the last time they would ever have this kind of row. “Have you eaten?” It was late, but John doubted the other man had eaten all day. Sherlock shook his head.

“Up for something simple?” John asked. Sherlock grunted evasively, his head buried back in the microscope and a different experiment. John smiled. It was the closest he had come to assent in the month he’d known him. “I’ll take that as a yes.” John noticed a grin tug very slightly at the corner of Sherlock’s lips and he chuckled to himself, already going through the cupboard and the fridge for a simple dinner. The two sat and ate together on the sofa in a comfortable silence. Sherlock stared into space, apparently lost in thought, while John read a book, the plates balanced on their respective laps.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. John gaped, wondering if Sherlock had been replaced by an alien. Sherlock got up and deposited the empty plate on the edge of the sink, ignoring it when it clattered to the floor moments later. He stripped off his shirt and walked to his dresser, gathering his pyjamas and walking into the bathroom to change into his night clothes. John watched, mildly perplexed, as the curly-haired man walked over to his bed and crawled into the covers and curled up in a ball. Going about his own bedtime routine John glanced over occasionally, his doctor senses alert. Something just felt wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

About 2am, John was awoken by a low moan. Having been awoken from the middle of his own nightmare, John was disoriented, his senses on trigger alert. Sherlock, he thought, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes so he could see what was happening on the other side of the room. Sherlock was having a nightmare, John realized. He forced himself to focus on the thrashing body before realizing there was nothing he could do. Climbing out of his own bed John flipped on the light, startling a moan of surprise out of Sherlock. He shuddered before his movements came to a halt, his eyes blinking open.

“Mm…John?” Sherlock turned to look at John, standing not far from Sherlock’s bed. “Why are you up?”

“You had a nightmare.” John crouched down to Sherlock’s level, a few feet away. He knew from experience to never crowd someone who’d been having a nightmare. He couldn’t claim to have any idea as to what Sherlock had been dreaming about, but he knew it wasn’t good. Trying to touch him or startle him in any way would end badly. It was better to stay out of hitting range.

“No I didn’t. That’s absurd.” Sherlock frowned at John, disbelieving. John smiled sadly, the corner of his mouth crooked up in faint amusement.

“You may think yourself immune to normal human things,” he teased gently, “but what I witnessed was most definitely the beginnings of a nightmare. You can trust me, I’m a doctor.” John winked. Sherlock looked down at the blankets wrapped around him before looking up at John, his normally clear blue eyes hazy. John stared back, solemn and present.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said finally, experimentally. John blinked - he had gotten both please and I’m sorry in the same day. Aliens, then. Sherlock reached out, gesturing for John to come closer. John stepped close enough that, fumbling, Sherlock grasped his hand and squeezed it briefly. John responded in kind, communicating his understanding and offering comfort in whatever way he could.

“For what?” he asked. Sherlock withdrew his grasp, sorting himself back into his curled up position on his bed. This time, however, he was facing towards John. John stood where he was, not wanting to leave Sherlock if Sherlock still wanted him there.

“For not thinking to wake you up,” Sherlock said, so quietly that John had to crane closer to hear him.

“It’s good you didn’t, actually. I might’ve hurt you.” He thought briefly of patting Sherlock on the shoulder and decided against it, ignoring Sherlock has he scoffed at the thought of John actually being able to hurt him. The man wasn’t big on physical contact (or human sentiment, for that matter), and probably wouldn’t understand the gesture. John also didn’t want to run the risk of upsetting him in case the gesture triggered something from the nightmare. Walking back over to his bed and flipping off the light, John crawled back under the covers and settled in. His mind wandered over what Sherlock could have been dreaming of, and he shoved the thoughts away.

Possibly, to Sherlock - could his day to day existence be worse than anything he could dream about? John shuddered at the thought, turning over and taking deep breaths until his mind emptied. He was nearly asleep when Angelie’s face popped up unbidden. John sighed. He had learned a lot about relationships in the past couple weeks at Asylum. It had been a slow shift in perception, and would continue to be one.

There was a lot to think about. How to classify his relationship with Angelie, to begin with. How to classify their interactions - both hers and his. Understanding that although he was stronger and could have stopped her, not stopping her did not mean that she was right. Things would be different next time, John assured himself. He knew what to look for.

Or he was learning, anyway. Closing his eyes, he turned over again to face Sherlock and curled into a ball, mimicking the position he often saw Sherlock sleep in. Maybe it would help. He laughed. Nothing helped. It was an hour of tossing and turning before John let himself slip away, afraid of what would come. The calm had been shattered when Sherlock awoke.

John opened his eyes and frowned. It was dark, still. He looked over. Sherlock’s bed - was gone. He used an arm to push himself up. It was just his bed with him in it, alone in an empty, black room. He went to stand up, noticing with distaste that he was naked. What was going on? Disoriented and on high alert, he wrapped a sheet around himself and stepped forward, using his arm as a guide. He walked the perimeter of the square room. He was trapped.

What the hell was going on? John didn’t know. It was a room - a locked room. “Hello?” his voice echoed, the silver sound waves dancing about the room at the edges of his peripheral vision. Cautiously he settled himself into a corner. Something was wrong. A nightmare. The room vanished. He was in army fatigues - crouched by a mound of sand. Watching his target, waiting for the moment that his finger would cover the trigger and send off the fatal shot.

“John?” he glanced over, and froze. Sherlock was next to him. Dream Sherlock, John told himself forcefully. Not Sherlock, but Sherlock all the same. His posh shirts, the ironed trousers, the custom shoes, the messy curly hair. He peered at John’s target, eyes curious.

“Get down, you git,” John hissed, removing his finger from the trigger in order to tug down all six-odd foot of crazy roommate.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, nonchalant as he crouched down next to John. “This is a dream, after all. I can’t be hurt. You can’t be hurt. She can’t be hurt.” He nodded his head towards a woman sitting on John’s other side.

“Hello, John.” John’s blood ran cold at the sound, the voice familiar and deadly all at once. Angelie. Why was she in the same dream as Sherlock? The desert vanished, only to be replaced again by the empty black room. This time there was a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, illuminating the darkness to reveal Sherlock perched on the bed, watching John on the floor in front of him. Angelie stared coldly at the pair of them, her hands held loosely by her side. John froze. It was the same - the same as the first nightmare he’d had after coming to Asylum. The same location. But Sherlock was there this time. John frowned, creating furrows in his forehead. What was going on? He attempted to force his mind into compliance, into making sense of the situation, but it stuttered and failed. Mirthful lines creased about Angelie’s brown eyes as she laughed at him, he knew. That much wasn’t new.

She leaned forward and jabbed a perfectly manicured fingernail into a scar decorating John’s ribs, smirking as he flinched. While most of the bruises had healed, the scars were still tender, and she knew it. The dream-her, anyway. She knew everything. “Glad to see you haven’t changed,” she taunted. She slapped him this time, and John’s head reeled back, losing his balance and ending up on the floor. It got worse when he realized he was naked. He stayed silent. Silence was the only way to take what she threw at him. The smiles, the shouts, the slaps, a writhing mass of contradictions.

“Leave him alone.” Sherlock’s voice rang out behind him. He stood and calmly walked in front of John, standing between him and the blond-haired woman. Angelie laughed, cold and mocking.

“Make me. You’re just as useless as he is,” she sneered, a brutal contrast to Sherlock’s elegant scowl. “Pathetic. You can’t even kill yourself properly.” She noticed John’s wide-eyed reaction and rolled her eyes. “Obviously part of you noticed, John, if I can torment you with it in a dream. Yes, your brilliant, mad flatmate - how do you think he got all of those scars?”

Sherlock said nothing, standing in front of John, steady on his feet. John’s mind was reeling, attempting to process the information. Sherlock - Sherlock had tried to kill himself. The beautiful, broken man. John’s heart ached for him. “Leave him alone,” Sherlock repeated. John could barely see his face from where he was sitting, yet what he saw chilled him to the bone. Sherlock’s eyes were cold, no sign of the fragile man that John saw on occasion. Sherlock’s quiet hesitation and flinches were gone, replaced by something as hard and inflexible as steel.

Something glistened in Angelie’s hand and John tensed, terror freezing him to the spot. She raised her hand and settled the gun against Sherlock’s alabaster forehead. “Make me,” she said clearly, her face cruel with its sharp angles as she smiled cruelly at Sherlock.

“I will,” Sherlock answered, ethereal, so beautiful John could barely stand to look at him. He closed his eyes. John fought to break the fear that paralysed him, that kept him from telling Sherlock how stupid of an idea this was. Although he knew it was a dream, that nothing would actually happen to Sherlock, he couldn’t bear to see the man hurt. The amazing, fantastic, insane man that shared his flat. He couldn’t go. His mind stuttered and stopped. He heard a bang and watched Sherlock’s body fall over, bonelessly crashing onto the floor. Angelie’s cruel grin flashed through John’s mind. Sherlock’s eyes stared, empty, at the ceiling, no life in them. John screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

He woke up, on the floor, his throat dry as a desert, his voice hoarse, the screams lessened only by the limits of tormented vocal chords. Covering his eyes with an untangled arm he sobbed brokenly, breath lurching as he tried to breathe in enough air, tears streaming down his cheeks for reasons he didn’t fully understand. His past. His future. His present. All of it, pain. There was a soft noise not far from him and he lifted his arm, opening an eye to see Sherlock watching him, his face blank. There was something warm about his expression, something John had not seen before. In his hand was a tissue box. He sat it down not far from John, cautiously quiet, offering nothing more than his silent companionship. John drank in his whole image, revelling in the lack of any bumps or marks that indicated damage to his face. He was safe. He was alive. Angelie wasn’t there - she didn’t have a gun. They were safe. Finally the tears subsided.

John sat quietly with Sherlock not far from him. Both men were silent as John fought to get his emotions under control. Finally his breath slowed and he inhaled and exhaled easily. Sherlock’s eyes were a kaleidoscope of emotion, bits flashing in and out. It fascinated John. Sherlock offered a hint of a smile, a twitch of the corner of his lips as he stood up and moved away, leaving John to sit there by himself. John watched him walk back over to his side of the room, sitting down cross-legged on the bed with long fingers steepled under his chin. He had no idea what went on in Sherlock’s mind. The man talked rarely, and when he did it was often ramblings or rants about his various experiments. John listened with enthusiasm, offering an ‘amazing!’ or ‘brilliant!’ when required. He enjoyed it, in a way. He learned something new every time. Sighing, John straightened his legs out of the twined sheets. He didn’t want a full disclosure, just a hint about what went on in his mind. He had a feeling that Sherlock was terrible at anything to do with feelings.

Sherlock got up from the bed and walked over to the kitchen, checking a few of his experiments. Restlessly he walked over to where his violin was sitting, shooting a quick glance at the clock that John noted said four AM. “You should sleep,” Sherlock murmured. He glanced at John and then away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at him. John studied Sherlock’s quiet face for a few moments, then nodded, slowly standing up. As was usual after one of his nightmares he had to fetch spare sheets from their supply closet, remaking his bed with its normal, military-neat corners. Smoothing the sheet out unconsciously he crawled under the covers, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock lifted the bow to the bridge of the violin and began to play. John didn’t know what it was, but whatever it was, he liked it. It was some sort of lullaby, he thought, fighting to keep his eyes open so he could listen. As much as he fought, he couldn’t keep them open much longer, and slowly John felt his body relax.

Morning came. It was a quiet one, the rays of the sun dancing through the open window and lighting up the middle of the room. John laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was just another day. He sighed, not wanting to get up and face it. He glanced over, startled to see Sherlock still in bed, his body lax. Glancing at the time, he frowned - it wasn’t like Sherlock to still be in bed. It was unlike Sherlock to be in bed at all. John looked closer, narrowing his eyes. He waited for Sherlock to breathe. And waited.

He was horrified to discover that Sherlock was barely breathing, his respirations far too slow. Jumping out of bed, he ran over, automatically feeling for a pulse and relieved to find a thready, barely-there one. It was better than nothing. He grabbed his barely-used mobile off the nightstand and jammed it to his ear, dialing the emergency service that Asylum provided. They had their own standalone hospital and he hoped it would be enough. A narcotic overdose? Sherlock moaned nonsensically as John shook him, attempting to get some response. John pried open an eyelid to see that his pupils were blown (not reacting to light) and his heart sank. He shuffled a hand desperately through Sherlock’s bedside drawer and was horrified to find an empty vial of dilaudid and a depressed, needleless syringe next to it. The needle had been twisted off. Narcotic overdose, then. He checked the dosage that had been drawn up in the syringe and the contents of the vial.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was frantic. He shook the curly-haired man, still unable to get anything other than a vague moan out of him. He couldn’t lose him. Sherlock was his friend, the only one he had. They needed each other. He needed him around - to leave fingers in the microwave, to leave toenails in the freezer. Someone John could look after. “Damn you,” he choked out, aware tears were starting to roll down his cheeks.

“Dr. Watson?” Someone in medic’s clothing came over.

“Probable narcotic overdose. Looks like a vial of dilaudid. Thinking intentional. Past history of suicide attempts, although nothing drug-related that I know of. Narcan should pull him around, but I don’t know how long he’s been down and his pupils are blown. Not more than four hours as he was alive and well at 4:30am,” John rattled off automatically, backing away. “I’m coming with.” John shoved his feet into his boots, grabbing his coat as he followed the paramedics out towards the ambulance. He watched stoically as they bagged and then intubated Sherlock when he stopped breathing, maintaining his airway. John’s heart faltered in his chest, and only the sheer force of his will kept it beating. Why had this happened? Had John done something? Sherlock had given off none of the normal warning signs - but who was John kidding, this was Sherlock. Even if he had, was John around to witness them? Sherlock was gone the majority of the day. He shuddered.

The ride to the hospital was quiet, on John’s part. The paramedics talked quietly to each other, monitoring Sherlock with a quiet competence. Despite that John kept a close eye on the monitors and on Sherlock’s condition. John’s medical training had taught him something about overdoses and working at an A&E for a while had taught him even more. He just wished he had more information, such as when had Sherlock taken the dilaudid? That kind of information was vital to knowing whether or not Sherlock would be okay. The dilated pupils were another contradictory sign - was it an indicator of brain damage, or was Sherlock instead extremely high?

They were quietly taken to a private ICU room, the medics leaving John alone with Sherlock. He stood there, watching the pale man breathe with mechanical assistance, taking in the ventilator and the beeps and chirps that indicated that Sherlock was alive and functioning. The nurses came in and momentarily removed him from the room. John went without protest, knowing they had tests to do, tubes to insert - catheters and other things John was certain Sherlock would protest about the moment he was awake. The thought quirked a smile on the corner of his lips, a smile that was quickly stilled. He would wake up, he would.

What was he to Sherlock? The thought unsettled him, and he shifted his weight onto his good leg. Sherlock was his friend. That was for certain. At least on John’s side. What went on in Sherlock’s mind the majority of the time, however, was still a complete mystery. John had a feeling that Sherlock shared very little with anyone. While he had no idea how Sherlock had grown up, he could make an educated guess. Both Sherlock and Mycroft had left clues that John could grasp onto.

“You can go back in now, Dr. Watson.” The tallest nurse jolted him out of his thoughts and the one he guessed was in charge looked him over. John shrugged, aware of what an image he made. He was dressed in tattered pyjamas, feet shoved roughly into unlaced army boots. They hadn’t tried to kick him out and for that he was grateful. Mycroft’s influence, probably. He had pulled an armchair over to Sherlock’s bed and sunk down into it, watching Sherlock sleep. There was a knock on the glass door and he looked up to see Mycroft standing in the doorway.

“How is he?” The pale blue eyes were oddly fragile as they took in John sitting at Sherlock’s bedside. John shrugged, shifting unconsciously closer to Sherlock’s pale form.

“No change,” he answered quietly. “There was a vial of dilaudid next to his bed. I’m guessing that’s what he took. The residue in the syringe - looks like he took the entire thing at once.” John looked from Mycroft back to Sherlock’s still form, pain visible in his eyes. “I don’t know why.” He mused over the last conversation he had had with Mycroft, where he swore to give no information. This - this was different. It was likely Mycroft already had the information, or he would shortly gather it from a conversation with the nurses. When it came to Sherlock’s health, to getting him back, John would do whatever it took.

“My brother is a very damaged man, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said, his voice betraying a hint of emotion for the first time since John had met him. Well, non-threatening emotion, John amended. He had gotten quite familiar with Mycroft’s threatening tone the night they’d met. John nodded his head in acknowledgement, slowly reaching out and covering one of Sherlock’s pale hands with his steady, warm one. It was cold. Too cold. He wasn’t sure why the gesture felt right - it just did. The contact was as startling to John as it would have been to Sherlock had he been awake.

Ignoring Mycroft, John sank down into his own thoughts, thumb caressing Sherlock’s pale hand as he wandered the tunnels of his own mind. He had done a lot of thinking, the month he had been at Asylum. Had it just been a month? The notion surprised him. It had felt like far longer. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth. Staying at Asylum had helped him think through several things. The relationship with Angelie had been wrong - he accepted that. He accepted that it wasn’t healthy. That it was wrong. His therapists thought he’d made excellent progress.

John frowned down at the hand caressing Sherlock’s. Progress. There were so many connotations to it, so many different meanings that mingled together. John was still hesitant to classify what had happened as abuse. The situation had been dysfunctional, at the very least. A mockery of a real relationship. John understood far better what had happened between them and why, but the stigma of being a male ‘victim’ of domestic violence was something John preferred to avoid. Part of his reaction to her behavior was his military past. He felt like he deserved it, somehow. The more rational part of him knew he didn’t.

Everyone got irrational at times. Even Sherlock. Staring briefly, pointedly at the bed as evidence, John exhaled slowly, controlling his emotions. At least he had been there. At least he had known Sherlock well enough to know that the man staying in bed the way he had was extremely unusual. His emergency medical skills, unused the past several months, came to forefront and he had been coherent enough to find the cause of Sherlock’s comatose-like state. A chill ran through him briefly before he shoved the thoughts out of his mind. Sherlock had not engineered this. He couldn’t have. He couldn’t be testing John - could he? The other option was a purposeful overdose. Angelie’s words from the dream floated through his mind, joining the venomous little voice nagging him from the back of his head.

The near-silent nagging continued on and off for the hours John sat there in silence. Mycroft sat near the entrance to the room, absorbed in his mobile. He was doing whatever he did as a job, John presumed. A nurse came in every hour to check on Sherlock, to report that there were positive signs. His pupils were returning to normal, and his brain waves seemed to be resuming their normal configuration. Whatever was normal for Sherlock Holmes, anyway.

Trust, John reminded himself ferociously. Sherlock was sick. He’d been lashing out at himself, at the world. John traced a finger up the naked inside of Sherlock’s pale arm. He hadn’t tried to stare too much at the marks decorating the inside of his forearm - it was an invasion of Sherlock’s privacy. Sherlock could tell him about the marks when he felt like it. John could wait - he could wait forever, if he had to. He trusted Sherlock.

A low moan from the bed drew his attention away from the marks on Sherlock’s arm and turned it towards the man himself. “I think he’s waking up.” John was surprised at how hoarse his voice was. He had been sitting his vigil in utter silence - he doubted he’d spoken the whole day he’d been waiting, lost in thought the entire time. The mobile disappeared from Mycroft’s hand and he was immediately standing at the other side of his brother’s bed.

Mycroft must have hit the button that summoned a nurse, as one walked the room, bumping Mycroft out of her way and flashing a penlight to test Sherlock’s pupils, John noting with satisfaction as they contracted normally in response to the light. She rapidly removed the tube from his mouth, allowing Sherlock to breathe normally without the mechanical assistance provided by the ventilator. “He should be awake any second,” she said quietly. John’s hand tightened on Sherlock’s briefly, his thumb still caressing the pale skin out of what now had became habit. He was waking up. He’d be okay. Sherlock would be okay. The words were a mantra through John’s mind. He felt the tension grow. Despite wanting to relax, he knew too many junkies who woke up with brain damage to be able to relax completely. There was also the matter of his motivation. John couldn’t bear to think that he had caused this.

Slowly Sherlock’s long eyelashes fluttered open, and John watched with relief as the stormy blue eyes focused on his face. John smiled at his friend, relief coursing through his body. “I knew you’d stay,” Sherlock croaked, his voice hoarse from the tube down his throat. John froze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update in two weeks - 6/15! Possibly earlier if I get the time.


	3. But Trying to Regain Your Trust was Harder Than it Seemed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, you can follow my tumblr [here](http://iolre.tumblr.com) for updates and previews and the like! Didn't get one up for this chapter, sadly, but my beta lost internet connection for a couple days.
> 
> Next update will be 6/29!

John stared at the man on the bed. Sherlock was watching him intently, his eyes piercing and clear, none of the drug-fueled haze that had occupied them prior. The little thoughts, the ones John had fought so valiantly, swarmed his mind, overwhelming him. “I have to go,” he choked out. He refused to look back. The flash of panic on Sherlock’s haggard face as he turned around and ran out of the room lingered in his mind, haunting him.

It was - Sherlock had used him. Had used his own body. Had taken advantage of John, had manipulated him. To what end? The thoughts swirled around him, an unending vortex of unanswered questions as John fought to straighten out what had happened. It was true. Sherlock was thinking of himself. He refused to trust John without testing him first. He should have known, should have suspected this would happen.

It was a fight to get his body under control. Drawing on all of the strength he had learned both from the military and his time with Angelie, he settled gratefully into one of the chairs in the ICU waiting area. It was quiet and unobtrusive, no waiting families around, and it afforded him the peace he needed to gather his thoughts. It was a lot to think about - a lot to process. The few words Sherlock had spoken had shattered John’s self-control and badly damaged his opinion of their friendship.

Did he trust Sherlock? He wasn’t sure, after this. He exhaled slowly, continuing to pull his temper back under his control. It was a silly question. He trusted Sherlock, as insane of an idea as it was. He would go where the man needed him to. The thought left a bitter taste on John’s tongue. Sherlock had known John would stay with him, if only as a doctor. It was not in John’s nature to ignore someone who was ill. Whether there was something more to that or not, John didn’t care to explore. A thought emerged from the murky depths of his mind. Sherlock was proving something to someone. To John? No, that didn’t make sense. To Mycroft? No, he doubted Sherlock thought that Mycroft cared whether or not he had a friend.

Sherlock had to prove it to himself. To prove that there was someone who might accept him for who he was. Sherlock needed a friend, and the sole person who he felt fit that designation had just run out of the room, leaving him vulnerable and alone. John stood and walked slowly back to the room. Regardless of why Sherlock had done what he did, John had to impress the importance of not repeating the action. Sherlock was too valuable, too precious to be lost to something that John could prevent.

John stopped in front of the glass door to Sherlock’s room, watching him scowl and gesture inanely at his brother. Mycroft sounded smooth and calm, contrasted by Sherlock’s agitated screeching and sharp movements. “Leave, Mycroft. If you can even fit through the door’s vast opening after consuming all that cake,” Sherlock muttered acerbically as John opened the door. He missed Mycroft’s smooth response as Sherlock’s gaze flickered to John and then away. The emotions on his face were barely contained, hurt and fear a potent combination that even Sherlock couldn’t hide. He looked almost feral. “Fuck off, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled. He scowled as his brother patted his hand on the bed.

“For a while.” Mycroft stepped away from Sherlock, looking John up and down, pyjamas and all. John stared steadily back, not budging an inch. He did hope that next time he had to face Sherlock’s older brother that he could at least be properly dressed. Pyjamas weren’t very intimidating, military-straight posture or not. Mycroft inclined his head slightly in John’s direction and walked out the door. John watched as Sherlock picked at the sheets with trembling fingers, his eyes darting around the room. He glanced at John occasionally, examining his clothing, but avoiding his face.

“You came back.” Sherlock was quiet, withdrawn, and his tone reflected his posture. It was almost as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying. It was so un-Sherlock that John felt his heart clench painfully in his chest. He pulled the flimsy hospital chair back next to Sherlock’s bed, watching the long, limber digits fiddling with the cotton. Direct eye contact was too much, both men afraid of what they would see in the other.

“Yes,” John answered simply. “We need to talk, Sherlock.” Lifting his head and meeting Sherlock’s questioning gaze, he was surprised to see a glimpse of naked fear before Sherlock smoothed his expression back into his normal, non-caring mask. It was the look Sherlock got whenever John wanted to discuss something that Sherlock found mildly to extremely unpleasant (such as why there was a head in the refrigerator). “You were testing me, weren’t you?” John settled back in the chair, modulating his voice to be smooth and comforting. It was the tone he normally used with worried or frightened patients. “To see if I’d stay if something happened to you.”

Sherlock shrugged, plucking pointedly at the cotton sheets. John shook his head, reaching out to tug the sheet out from between Sherlock’s fingers. “None of that, Sherlock. You need to talk to me.” Sherlock sneered.

“Yes.” It was obvious from Sherlock’s reaction that John leaving had startled him badly. John started to say something and stopped, aware that it could cause Sherlock to clam up completely. How John maintained his level of calm he didn’t know. He should be angry. Bitter. Yet all he could see was that Sherlock had reached out to him, and he had failed to answer that call.

“You could have just asked me,” John said softly. His doctor voice had served him well in the past and he could see the tension in Sherlock’s frame ebb slightly. “You can’t hurt yourself to test me.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, disgruntled. He was watching John now, his gaze flitting about John’s face.

John reached out and caught one of his hands, twining the fingers together. This caught Sherlock’s attention. He narrowed his eyes, attempting to deduce what John was thinking. The movement surprised both of them; John hadn’t intended to grab Sherlock’s hand. The gesture seemed to comfort Sherlock just as much as it comforted John. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand and flipped it over, bearing his forearm. The hospital gown he was in was short sleeved and covered little. White mingled with pale pink and the occasional harsh red of fresh scars, leading up to Sherlock’s elbow. John examined each mark intently with his eyes, assessing as both a doctor and a friend. He felt Sherlock twitch under his focus.

“These, Sherlock.” John looked from the scars to Sherlock’s face, his gaze purposeful. “These need to stop.” Sherlock looked away from him, colour rising on his stark-white cheeks.

“They help.” Sherlock couldn’t meet John’s eyes. It was understandable. He was vulnerable, the air in the room oddly soft. “Clarity. Almost better than the drugs.” A wrinkle formed in his forehead before being smoothed out.

“That may be so,” John said, kind and stern at the same time. “No more of them, okay?” Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand gently, an acknowledgement of how difficult talking had to be for him. “Please.”

Sherlock wrenched his hand out of John’s grasp, wrapping his arms around himself. John left his hand on Sherlock’s bed, palm-up and welcoming. He had thought he was broken. Here was someone who needed looking after far more than he did, and no one had thought to offer it. “Mycroft must have tried to get you to stop,” John reasoned, more to himself than to Sherlock.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock scowled. “Fat git thinks he knows everything.”

“Spoken like a true younger brother,” John chuckled. “What helps you find clarity? Besides drugs or the self-mutilation.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock considered the question. “My experiments.” He cocked his head to the side, giving the impression of a bird sitting on its perch. A gangly, odd-looking bird in a hospital gown. John grinned inwardly at the thought, fighting to control his face. “Helping Mycroft with some cases he finds.” Sherlock paused and then frowned. “Don’t ever tell him that.”

John laughed. “I won’t.” He couldn’t help but smile. “Well, we’ll try more of those, alright?” John said, encouraging. “You can always come to me, if things get too much, okay?” Sherlock slowly stroked the sleeve of John’s jumper with a finger in acknowledgment. Figuring that was the limit to emotional introspection for both of them, John settled back in the chair. “Let me talk to the nurse and we’ll see if you can come home soon. I’m sure some of your experiments need your attention.”

Once he returned, he settled back into his chair by Sherlock’s bed. They spent the next several hours talking about the various experiments Sherlock had conducted. John could tell that his in-depth knowledge of biology and chemistry surprised his flatmate and he couldn’t help but feel smug. Sherlock sounded nearly back to normal, the overdose seemingly behind them. It lurked in the back of John’s mind, however, and he swore to keep a better eye on Sherlock in the future.

Soon the nurse came to release Sherlock. She shot pointed glares in Sherlock’s direction as she gave the discharge instructions to John. He listened intently, although half of his focus was on Sherlock. The man couldn’t be left alone in a social situation for longer than five seconds without becoming a danger to himself. The nurse continued to instruct John on signs and symptoms to look that Sherlock might give off if he was going to attempt another overdose in the future. John grimaced inwardly, although his face was as stoic as normal. He had failed his flatmate. Finally she was done talking and John helped her get an extremely petulant Sherlock into a wheelchair for discharge. They might have tightened the seatbelt a bit more than was prudent, but it kept him in the chair.

By the time they had left, Sherlock had fired three doctors, seven nurses, and half of the hospital staff refused to get within fifty feet of his room. Mycroft had had to intervene and talk with several of the staff to prevent them from filing complaints. Things had gotten remarkably quieter after that, with Sherlock muttering his deductions to John instead of shouting them at whomever was passing by. It seemed to calm him, so John listened, answering with an “Amazing!” or a “Brilliant!” when the occasion suited it. Finally Sherlock had stopped talking, seemingly placated by John’s continual expression of how fantastic he was.

The short ride back to their flat was uneventful. Mycroft had provided a car that met them at the base of the hospital. It was on the opposite side of Asylum from their building, and the doctor had refused to allow Sherlock to travel by himself. John hadn’t believed how big Asylum was until he had traveled the ten-odd miles it took to get to the hospital from their building. Sherlock muttered under his breath the whole ride and John contemplated smothering him with a pillow. “Do you want me to tell the driver to turn around?” he finally demanded. Sherlock shut up after that, merely glancing at John out of the corner of his eyes. The doctor had rolled his eyes and settled back against his side of the discrete black sedan. He couldn’t wait to get Sherlock back to their flat so the man could direct his energy somewhere that wouldn’t disrupt all of humanity.

“You can check your experiments, Sherlock, but then you need some rest.” John was using his Doctor voice. Sherlock snorted as he hopped out of Mycroft’s car, leaving John to tag behind. Sherlock was far less intimidating when he was dressed in his pyjamas, although his dressing gown did swirl dramatically behind him when he made a sharp turn.

“Boring, John,” he muttered.

“You say that about everything.” John followed Sherlock up to their room. “Sherlock,” he said pointedly.

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock sighed theatrically. He opened the door with a flourish and darted inside. John followed more sedately, giving the room a quick look to make sure nothing had changed in the day or so they’d been gone. Their building, sadly, was still standing, all their belongings where they had been earlier that morning. Sherlock was fussing over some petri dishes that had been left on the table, muttering something about their half-lives.

It was relatively late in the day, John noted, checking the clock. It’d be bed for at least one of them before too long. “Another thing, Sherlock.” John sighed. “The drugs. I want your stash. Don’t lie to me, don’t hide any, because I’ll search this room next time you’re gone.”

“All of them?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I want to make sure this morning doesn’t happen again,” John answered without hesitation. He walked to his armchair and settled into its comfortable plush. Sherlock muttered darkly under his breath. A short time later John had two small bags of powder and several vials resting on the table by Sherlock’s couch, defiantly daring him to comment. John was silent as he looked over the thousands of pounds of drugs that Sherlock had given him. He was stunned. “How long have you been doing drugs, Sherlock?” Sherlock shrugged, seemingly flippant. He had retreated into himself, then.

“Four years, give or take.” Long fingers caressed the vials as if they were friends, clenching slightly as John walked forward and took them from the table.

“I’ll have these destroyed,” John murmured. Sherlock ignored him. “You won’t buy any more, will you?” Sherlock was silent and John waited until he heard Sherlock huff and stomp towards the table. That was good enough for him. He walked into the loo and flushed the powder down the toilet. The bags went into the sink to be soaked and disposed of. He was careful to leave no residue behind and to get none on his skin. The vials he pocketed. He texted Mycroft about those later, figuring that Sherlock’s brother could dispose of them properly.

When he emerged from the bathroom Sherlock was sitting at the table, a scalpel delicately poised over what looked to be human fingers. He looked up at John briefly before his focus returned to the items in front of him, slicing carefully through the tissue. Shifting a few of the resultant slices onto microscope slides, Sherlock transferred some fluid from a nearby flask onto the slide, watching intently through the microscope as the solution bubbled once it hit the flesh.

John pulled out the book he’d been reading prior to the incident and settled back down into his chair. From there he could read and still keep an eye on Sherlock. They sat like that for an hour, a comfortable silence stretching between them, until John could barely keep his eyes open. It had been such a long, emotionally draining day and John was exhausted. “Alright,” he said, standing up and stretching. “Bedtime.” He looked pointedly at Sherlock, who was staring intently into the microscope. Figuring that he could give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt, he gathered a fresh pair of pyjamas for a shower.

Walking into the bathroom, John stripped quickly and hopped under the spray of water. It was one of his faster showers. His conscious wouldn’t allow him to stay away from Sherlock for too long. He dressed quickly in the pliable cotton trousers he always wore, tossing his old ones into the laundry. Stepping out of the bathroom, he was pleased to see that Sherlock had changed into a different outfit. His shirt and pyjama trousers were rumpled and discarded in a pile on the floor, although his favorite dressing gown was still covering his shoulders. John smiled at him. “Pick up your clothes, you git.”

John felt Sherlock’s gaze on the back of his neck. It was oddly unnerving. He perched on his bed, steadily meeting Sherlock’s eyes. The other man looked away, turning back to his microscope and the corroded slice of finger perched on the slide. “Why.”

John tilted his head slightly at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. “Why what?” Sherlock turned away from the eye pieces and picked up the scalpel. His gaze was on the instrument, and there was a lust and wanting in his dark eyes that sent shivers down John’s spine. “Put the scalpel down.” Sherlock didn’t. He twisted it this way and that, his focus on the sharp blade. “Sherlock.” Finally he sat it down, although his fingers lingered on its handle.

“Why did you stay.” Sherlock turned back to the microscope, although he was no longer examining the slide. John watched him pick up a flask and tilt it one way or another. Sherlock didn’t seem to like not having something to do with his hands.

“That’s not what you’re actually asking, is it?” John was finally able to read what had been bothering him since they had gotten back to Asylum. Sherlock’s agitation, his defensive behavior, even the overdose – all were typical reactions in abuse victims. John had behaved in a similar fashion when he had originally arrived at Asylum. Sherlock was wondering why John had stayed the entire time. The first night. The second. The overdose. Everything. Sherlock sat, mute, his hand gripping the flask with more force than was necessary. Throwing the glass container into the rubbish bin, Sherlock gathered himself and walked over to his bed, slipping silently under the covers. His dressing gown lay discarded on the floor.

John thought the question over. Even he didn’t know the answer. Why had he stayed? The answer to Sherlock’s suicide attempt was an easy one. Sherlock had needed him. The answer to why he had stayed at the beginning was a bit harder. Something in Sherlock’s personality, something about Sherlock had drawn them together. They needed each other. They completed each other. John scowled, not pleased with the direction of his thoughts.

“Is it that hard to answer?” John shrugged, aware that Sherlock couldn’t see the movement.

“A little bit,” he answered honestly. “I don’t really know myself. We’re friends, though, aren’t we?”

Sherlock shifted on the bed. “I have never had a friend before.” His voice was quiet and small and made John want to punch the wall. What would it be like, growing up without friends? Without someone that cared?

“Sherlock…” John trailed off. What did you say to that?

“It wasn’t their fault,” he said prosaically. “It was mine. I wasn’t very nice - I drove people off on purpose.” Sherlock shrugged, the motion making the sheets ripple.

“Shouldn’t you be telling all of this to your therapist?” He raised his eyebrows, suddenly skeptical. “You have one. Don’t you?”

“Boring.” Sherlock’s voice was dismissive and dripping with disdain.

“What do you do during the day, then?” John fought to keep his voice steady.

Sherlock yawned, ignoring John. John repeated the question twice more, getting nothing more than a curt ‘Stop repeating yourself. You sound like an idiot’. Sighing, he gave up, crawling into his bed. He curled onto his side, his head cushioned by the pillow. It wasn’t long before he fell into an uneasy sleep.

John sighed as the sunlight hit his eyes. It was the first night without a nightmare in months, but it had not been an easy one. He had woken up four times throughout the night to check on Sherlock, making sure the man was breathing before he felt secure enough to go back to sleep. The thought of a repeat of the prior morning sent shivers down his spine.

Stretching, John went into the bathroom, changing into a comfortable jumper and jeans. It was a normal day for him despite yesterday’s crazy whirlwind. Therapy followed by an indoor picnic with the pod. ‘Group bonding’, they called it. He snorted. He’d gotten to know a couple of the other men in his pod (Justin and Cameron) rather well, but forced interaction with other people had never been a strong point of his. He had learned how to be civil in the military, but after being invalided home and eventually sent to Asylum, silence had been golden.

When he came out, Sherlock was sitting at the table in his dressing gown, peering into the microscope. John noticed with mild distaste that the human finger was gone. Hopefully it wasn’t in the rubbish bin. “Hungry?” he asked conversationally, knowing the answer. Sherlock shook his head minutely. “I’ll make you something anyway, and you’ll eat it.” John shook a spatula threateningly in Sherlock’s direction. The curly-haired man said nothing, although John could see a slight quirk of a smile threatening at the corner of his lips. “I saw that.”

Sherlock straightened up, avoiding John’s gaze. He walked over to his dresser and pulled out the few articles of clothing he stored there before turning to his wardrobe. A few minutes later he turned and disappeared into the bathroom. John heard the shower come on moments later. Humming to himself as he cooked, John finished scrambling the eggs and divided them into two bowls, dishing more to himself. Bacon was next. Not close to a full English, but filling enough. He flipped on the kettle, heating up water so he could have tea with his breakfast. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t eat much (if anything), but John was hungry and he had a long day to face.

The taller man came out of the bathroom, dressed in his normal ensemble. He was wearing a deep plum shirt, a black suit jacket, and pressed black trousers. For someone as quirky as Sherlock was, he looked amazing. John felt a bit jealous, standing there in his plain jumper.

“Here.” John thrust the smaller bowl of eggs at Sherlock, knowing he wouldn’t want any of the bacon. Sherlock took it with a scowl, perching on the sofa as he picked at it. John shook his head, mildly amused. He fished out the finished bacon and chopped it before mixing it in with his own eggs. The kettle signaled its readiness and Sherlock coughed, drawing John’s attention.

“Might want to check the kettle before using it,” Sherlock murmured. John sighed, opening it up and emptying the boiling water into the sink.

“What’d you put in it this time?” he asked fondly, exasperated.

“Some nails.” Sherlock considered the last bit of egg before sticking it in his mouth. When Sherlock did eat, he did so with a single-minded focus. It was how he approached life, John figured.

“And why were there nails in the kettle?” he inquired, washing it out carefully with a diluted cleaning mixture. He had copious amounts of it on hand. Living with Sherlock was like being a bachelor again, except with more cleaning and excessive body parts. The man was always sticking random things places where they didn’t belong. Thankfully due to John’s army background it wasn’t nearly as disturbing as it could have been. The odd body part in the refrigerator had nothing on war injuries. Rinsing the kettle out, he filled it up with water and flipped it back on

Sherlock considered the question for a few moments, settling the bowl noisily on the edge of the table. “Nothing you’d understand,” he said finally. John darted out of the kitchen and lunged, catching the bowl and spoon before they clattered off onto the floor. He shot Sherlock a glare for his behavior (which the man steadfastly ignored) before dropping the bowl into the sink with a mental note to clean it later.

“Well, just try to keep your assorted body parts out of my kettle in the future,” John muttered, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for the kettle to go off. To distract himself he sorted through a variety of tea bags before settling on Earl Grey. Finally, the water was ready. Pouring it into the mug he waited for the tea to steep. Once it was finished, he turned to face Sherlock, who had moved to the table and was fiddling with the knobs of his microscope. “Plans for the day?” John sipped his tea, staring at Sherlock who was only four or five feet away.

Sherlock shifted slightly under John’s scrutiny, and John lifted his eyebrows. “Boring, John,” he said finally. John took another drink of his tea, the picture of patience. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “No.”

“Yes, Sherlock.” John noted absently that the rubbish bin needed to be taken out at some point. It was a constant hazard in their room, as Sherlock seemed to stuff whatever random item he felt deserved it into its depths without warning. Sherlock scowled at the microscope and grabbed the toaster from the kitchen. He stalked to the sofa and sat in front of it, leaving a puzzled John behind. “Oi, what are you doing with that?”

Sherlock looked back at John, a slight furrow between his brows and a screwdriver already present in his hand. “What do you think, John?”

“What if I want toast?” John demanded. Sherlock considered this for a few seconds, then rolled his eyes.

“I’m sure Jason or Carmen would be willing to lend you their toaster.” He waved his free hand in John’s direction, the hand with the screwdriver already attacking the toaster with gusto.

“You mean Justin or Cameron?” John asked mildly, tapping one hand against the counter as he held the mug of tea with the other. Sherlock’s childish silence dragged on for long minutes, and John sighed. “No wonder you didn’t make any friends here. You didn’t even bother to remember their names.”

“Unimportant.” Sherlock shrugged. John shook his head, giving up on that line of thought. He drained his tea, setting the mug back on the table.

“You need something to do,” John said finally. “Something that isn’t – whatever you’re doing. It’s not working.” Rubbing his forehead in exasperation, John stared at the man who was sitting calmly on the floor, the toaster in pieces in front of him. Sherlock had picked up one of the smaller pieces and was examining it curiously, his pale eyes intent on deriving its secrets.

“Well, I have to get going.” Shrugging on his jacket, John paused at the doorway, his eyes on Sherlock. Especially after yesterday’s events, he was very reluctant to leave his flatmate by himself. The vials were in his pocket and Mycroft had arranged for him to meet someone prior to therapy to pass them off. What worried John the most was that he only had Sherlock’s word that he had gotten all of the drugs. Sherlock was honest when it suited him, but was so unreadable that John truly didn’t know if the man was telling the truth. It was an uneasy feeling.

Remembering what the last time trusting Sherlock had gotten him, he winced as he closed the door. He could deal with that later. If he was really unlucky, his therapist would have been updated on what had happened yesterday and he was going to be asked about it.

He was indeed that unlucky. Sighing as he left the therapist’s office, he scrubbed a hand through his hair. His therapist was a rather nice guy - Derrick, his name was - but still. Therapy was therapy was therapy, and especially due to being invalided home, John had had enough therapy to last him several lifetimes. He was thoroughly sick of it, sick of talking to someone about his problems.

Walking back to his room to check on Sherlock before the forced social interaction, he paused, struck by a sudden thought. Without knowing explicitly (he never did look through the list of rules Mike had given him), he assumed that things such as attempting suicide were on the list of ‘things that would get you kicked out of Asylum’. Yet nothing had changed for Sherlock, not even a mention of “Oh, I could be leaving” or that there would be any repercussions. John’s eyes narrowed. Mycroft. Mycroft would definitely intervene for his brother. But why?

Was it possible that Sherlock had fallen so far that there was nowhere else for him to go? The thought was a chilling one, but not unlikely. “You’re letting in a draft.” Sherlock’s neutral, bored voice cut through John’s thoughts like a knife. Obediently John shut the door behind him. His legs had carried him upstairs and into the doorway of their flat without his brain catching up.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor cross-legged like he had been earlier in the day, the toaster partially reconstructed in front of him. The screwdriver was nowhere to be seen and Sherlock didn’t seem to be working on it anymore. “Are you just going to leave it like that?” John asked mildly.

“Leave? Oh. Yes, it was dreadfully boring.” Sherlock unfolded his long legs and picked up the toaster and its various pieces, walking them back to the kitchen and dumping them unceremoniously on the counter. John stared at the toaster and then back at Sherlock, trying to figure out where to start.

Swallowing half of what he’d planned to say, he settled for a “So who do I talk to for a new toaster?” Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. John sighed, exasperated. It was becoming an awfully familiar expression for him around Sherlock. Making a note to ask one of his podmates, he moved back towards the door, checking the time. “Are you sure you don’t want to come? It is mandatory, Sherlock.”

Sherlock lifted an elegant eyebrow. “Yes, I know it’s a stupid question,” John muttered, opening the door. “I’ll be back.” Sherlock turned his attention back towards some bit of person he had settled on the table. Deciding he didn’t want to know, John walked out, shutting the door carefully behind him. Shielding his face against the wind, he walked down to a larger building that served Asylum as a mess hall and activity center of sorts. Broad-shoulder, blonde-haired Justin was standing close to the door. His roommate, sleeker, dark-skinned Cameron was standing not far from him, his focus on the Foosball match going on near where they were standing.

“John!” Justin practically bounded over to greet him. John laughed at his exuberance and grinned in response. Out of all the people inhabiting Asylum, Justin was the most exuberant in his displays of affection, a trait that seemed to spook some of the more timid residents. Justin, however, was very respectful of people’s personal space and didn’t touch John. Cameron merely nodded at John as the military doctor walked over.

“How’s the berk?” Cameron asked conversationally, only halfway paying attention to John and Justin. John arched his eyebrows, looking from one man to the other.

“He means Sherlock, the loony you live with,” Justin clarified, cheeky. John rolled his eyes.

“He’s not that bad,” he retorted, defensive.

“I heard he went crazy yesterday and tried to off himself.” Justin looked at John, obviously eager for the gossip. “Oh c’mon,” he begged. “If you tell me, I’ll tell you some stuff I heard from some of the blokes who’ve been here a while.” John considered this.

“He didn’t ‘try to off himself’.” John mentally excused the lie. “He just had a bit of an accident.” That much was true. “Is there some tea?” Cameron snorted, gesturing to table over in the far corner.

Justin nudged Cameron. “Be a dear and go get us some tea, will ya?” Cameron shot him a death glare and stomped off, ignoring Justin’s smile. John watched the interaction, a bit amused and envious at the same time. “He’s not really fond of Sherlock,” Justin added. He paused as if considering what he was going to say next. “Few are.”

John laughed. “I can see why, sometimes.” He smiled wryly. “He’s a bit of a handful.”

Justin rolled his eyes, an exaggerated, theatrical motion that had John chuckling. “He had six roommates before you,” he told John, a conspiratorial grin on his face. “The longest lasted three hours. The shortest walked in, spent five minutes in there, and left.”

John’s face fell. Five minutes? Three hours? No wonder Sherlock had been so surprised when John had stayed that first night. “What else?” he asked, focusing on keeping his face inviting and curious. More information was unlikely to make things worse. If anything, it could give him more insight into why Sherlock acted the way he did.

“Heard between roommates, there was a string of mysterious visitors, sometimes a couple a night.” Justin chewed on his lip, thinking. “There was never anything concrete, which is how he never got kicked out, but the running theory was that they were.” He paused and John saw the cogs turning in his head. “Paid visitors.” John frowned, and Justin sighed. “The old timer I talked to, he was pretty sure that these visitors - all men, from what I heard - were paying the berk for sex.”

John’s eyebrows shot through the roof at this, and Justin giggled. “Absurd-sounding, I know, but that’s totally what I was told.” He leaned closer, aware that Cameron was returning with a few mugs of tea. “He didn’t - yanno - make a move on you or anything, did he?” Justin smirked at John’s expression. “That’s what I heard happened to his first two roommates.” John shook his head.

“I don’t think he’s ever touched me,” John mused, nodding as he accepted the tea from Cameron with a polite smile of thanks. He purposefully did not think of the time he had cleaned Sherlock’s scars, or the time in the hospital. John stiffened – he hadn’t checked Sherlock’s arms and some of the marks he had seen yesterday were fresh. Damn.

“Maybe he finally learned some manners,” Cameron muttered. Justin snorted as he gulped down his tea. John took a more dignified sip, his mind mulling over the information he had received.

“Well, if you hear or see anything, totally tell me,” Justin chattered, grinning eagerly. “I love to add to the gossip pool.” John smiled at him, noncommittal, as he turned and walked over to a corner. From there he could see everyone else without being forced to interact with them. Leaning against the wall, he allowed his mind to wander.

Everything seemed to tie together in a sick kind of way. Sherlock had hinted at a past involving severe abuse, likely with a sexual component. Prostitution and promiscuity were consistent with such a background But Sherlock? Sherlock and sex? Sherlock being paid for sex? John’s mind crashed and burned when he attempted to fit all those words together in a coherent sentence. Sherlock, sex, and drugs he could handle - he knew many addicts would do anything for a fix. “Oi, John! Come play with me!” Justin drew John out of his thoughts, gesturing wildly.

Subsequently John got drawn into an Air Hockey game with the other man and fought fiercely for his spot as air hockey champion. He was actually quite good at the game. Although he had a bum leg (sometimes - didn’t seem like much of a problem, lately), his hand-eye coordination and his ability to lunge for the puck were extraordinary. Cameron had watched intently from the sidelines, laughing whenever John scored against Justin.

Finally, John had been there long enough that he could get away with excusing himself. He wandered slowly back to the room, wondering what (if anything) he would say to Sherlock. Slowly he pushed open the door. John had only been gone three hours, but there was a vast variety of options Sherlock could have gotten up to while he was gone. Maybe there’d be a new rogue body part in the refrigerator. John winced at the thought.

“Sherlock?” John looked around the room. He narrowed his eyes. Sherlock wasn’t there. That in itself wasn’t unusual, but after the events of the previous day it made John uncomfortable. Maybe he’d just gone out to fetch a new shipment of fingers, or something. Walking farther into their kitchen he examined the kettle - just a cursory glance, really, after the fingernail debacle earlier – before turning it on. He placed a tea bag into his favourite mug and waited for the water to boil. A few minutes later the tea was steeping and it was soon done. John settled down on his bed with a book and a hot mug of tea, content. Sherlock would come home when he felt like it, and there was no point in fretting over it before then.

It was an opportunity, however. John paused, contemplating what had become available to him. Seconds later he was setting aside the book and walking over to Sherlock’s side of the flat. He had been clear with Sherlock that he was going to search the flat next time he was out and now was as good of a time as ever. Making a note to also check for any sharps Sherlock could use to cut himself, John settled in for the long haul. He started with the draws and went through each one, examining all the nooks and crannies. Sherlock would fuss when he saw that John disrupted his sock index, but he didn’t really care. He checked Sherlock’s bed, underneath both the mattress and the bedsprings. John proceeded methodologically through the rest of the flat, checking his side as well. He would not put it past Sherlock to hide something in his belongings.

Satisfied that he hadn’t found anything that prompted concern, he returned to his book and settled on his bed. Still, his mind wandered. Despite the thoroughness of his search, Sherlock probably had hiding spots that John had not thought of. John sighed, realizing he probably done an extensive search for nothing. He thought about this for a few moments before discarding the idea. He had learned something - he had learned that Sherlock was indeed paying attention to John and was able to think about his actions and intentions. He hoped that was the reason, at least. It was either that or the secrecy was a trait acquired through years of use.

The door opened quietly and John sat his book down. He wanted to gauge Sherlock’s mood before continuing to any type of leisure. Sherlock looked tired, although John supposed he was one of the few people that could read past the mask. He was pale and sweaty, barely able to stand. John frowned, unable to think of anything that Sherlock could have gotten up to by himself that could have evoked either. Except for laps, and he doubted that was Sherlock’s style. The man seemed to abhor pointless physical activity. “Are you okay?” John inquired politely, sipping his tea as he watched the curly-haired man take off his scarf and thick wool coat.

Sherlock shrugged the warm Belstaff off of his shoulders. John froze, mug halfway to his mouth. One of his cuffs had gotten rucked up Sherlock’s arm, enough for John to see a thin red line on Sherlock’s left wrist. John’s eyes narrowed as he took a few minutes to more thoroughly go over the other man, making sure to note anything that he thought might be unusual.

The curly-haired man was exhausted - that much was obvious. What was less obvious was the red mark on his wrist and a small red spot (blood, probably) that John noted on his shirt. Without the coat on he looked far messier than he had when John had last seen him. For the first time since John had met him he seemed to be re-wearing an outfit, both shirt and trousers wrinkled out of their normally carefully-pressed state. “What were you doing?” John sipped his rapidly cooling tea with a hopefully innocent expression. Sherlock turned to see him, his face suddenly wary. He looked John up and down several times, likely reading the story of his day. Would he be able to tell what Justin had told him?

Tension was obvious in Sherlock’s body now. His shoulders had lifted a few centimeters and his jaw was tighter, more rigid. John leaned back against the headboard of his bed, trying to exude calm. Sherlock was staring at him. It wasn’t a friendly look, either. It was almost like Sherlock was trying to devour him with just his eyes. It sent shivers down John’s spine.

“Nothing important,” Sherlock finally muttered. Rolling his arms to stretch them, he twitched the errant cuff down so that his forearms were completely shrouded. The movement drew John’s gaze to them and he stood up and walked to get the antiseptic and the swabs.

“Let me clean them.” He held Sherlock’s eyes with his until Sherlock rolled his eyes and rolled his cuffs up. There were three fresh cuts on his left inner arm and two on his right. They were horizontal, from left to right, and thin. A razor blade, then. Gently he cleaned the marks, smiling apologetically when Sherlock tried to wrench his arm away when the antiseptic stung. “Sorry.”

As soon as John was finished Sherlock pulled his arm away, sliding the sleeves carefully down his forearms until all the marks were covered. “Sherlock,” John said warningly. He knew something else was up and wasn’t going to let Sherlock off the hook. He had to be honest with him if they were – John frowned inwardly. He wasn’t Sherlock’s mother, just his flatmate. Yet he was acting as a caretaker for his stroppy friend.

Sherlock stalked over to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door so savagely he nearly tore it off the hinges. John’s eyebrows shot up. “Who told you?” Sherlock muttered, rearranging some petri dishes before pulling one out of the fridge and setting it on the counter next to two similar ones. “Ah, one of the pod people.” He paused for a second, rearranging the dishes into a vaguely triangular formation. Grabbing one and plunking it down on the table, he fished around in the cabinets for some vials before he sat back down in his normal spot at the table.

John watched him silently for a few minutes, waiting to see if Sherlock would elaborate. “What did they tell me?” he asked, carefully conversational. He picked up his book off his bed, perching on the edge as he attempted to focus on it. He lasted about five seconds before his eyes flickered back to Sherlock. The taller man was sitting at the table slicing some disgustingly red mass of tissue into sections and placing each section into a test tube.

Sherlock rubbed his forehead with a hand and then focused again. “You are not fooling me with that book charade. You’re less of an idiot than the others, please act like it.”

“I was trying to,” John muttered, dog-earing the page to mark his spot. He sat it down and turned slightly on his bed to face Sherlock. Sherlock’s attention was on the test tubes. He didn’t even glance in John’s direction. “Why’d you tell me to put it down if you were going to ignore me?”

Sherlock didn’t even bother to answer John. John narrowed his eyes. There was something lurking under the surface of Sherlock’s behavior and John wanted to know what it was. He didn’t want to risk a repeat of the drug overdose. Anything but that. Although, he mused, Sherlock was under no obligation to tell him what he was up to. Unless he wanted to do something stupid again. Then it definitely was John’s problem.

John shook his head slightly to regain his focus. Talking to Sherlock on a normal day was difficult enough. Add in whatever was simmering and John’s worry and it was a practical nightmare. He needed to be sharp to navigate whatever issue had Sherlock acting odd.

“You cut yourself.” Not the most neutral place start, but it was a beginning and it was something that was going to continue coming up until it no longer was a problem.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was curt, and he was arranging the slender vials in a test tube holder on the table. He had affixed various coloured tape to each vial in some kind of indicator code. An even better question was where he had gotten the tape, as John had never seen it before. “Nicked it off of Mycroft,” Sherlock murmured, seemingly absorbed in arranging the vials in a pattern. He reached for a pipette next, his other hand grabbing a few small flasks he had set nearby. With careful precision he transferred a few drops of the irregularly coloured chemicals into their relevant tubes, his eyes intently examining the reactions to the transfers. His free hand was scribbling down notes on paper next to him. John smiled at the sight.

“I asked you not to do that,” John pointed out. He couldn’t let himself get distracted by Sherlock’s experiments, both interesting and odd at the same time. Sherlock turned his face in John’s direction, the startling blue eyes examining John in a way that made him distinctly uncomfortable. Sherlock stood up, taking the rack of test tubes to the fridge and sticking them carefully on a shelf. He threw the pipette into the sink and the small flasks in the rubbish. “Oi, they’re not going to like that stuff in the bin!” John protested half-heartedly, knowing it was a fight he could not win.

Sherlock stalked to the sofa and laid down on it, staring up at the ceiling with the same penetrating gaze he had turned on John moments before. “What do you want to know?” His voice was carefully modulated although not impenetrable. John thought he could detect the barest hint of a tremour in it.

“The truth,” John answered simply. “I want to be able to trust you.”

Sherlock snorted, his fingers steepled on his chest. “I doubt you’ll be able to.” He closed his eyes briefly before opening them again. His gaze hardened and John shifted uncomfortably on his bed. “What did they tell you?”

“That you had…” John paused, stumbling over the words. It was awkward, but he felt being honest was important. He had no idea if Sherlock would tell him anything. Figuring it was at least worth a try, he took a few seconds to gather his thoughts into something coherent. “You had some visitors, and your previous roommates didn’t work out so well.” John winced. What a great finish. Sherlock didn’t flinch.

“Yes, I was a prostitute.” His voice was dispassionate and disconnected, and John watched him carefully. Vulnerability was difficult on both of them. He was responsible for Sherlock’s fragile self (or it felt that way, anyway), and it was a huge responsibility. It did not seem that it had been granted to anyone else. “Mycroft threatened to cut off my spending money.” He scoffed and John fought a cringe. “They paid well.”

“What about the roommates?” John kept his voice steady, non-judgmental. It was information overload, yet vital information. The words told him both too much and not enough. He understood Sherlock better, although he felt he was left with more questions, left with the conundrum, the paradox that was Sherlock Holmes. It was delightful and frustrating at the same time.

“Some made it clear what they wanted and when I refused to give it to them, they left.” He focused his intense gaze on John, who felt himself wilting under the scrutiny. It was like being naked while still wearing clothes. Those eyes could see everything he was thinking, everything he had ever thought. “Some disapproved of the fingers in the refrigerator.”

“I can’t argue with that,” John muttered, a shudder rippling through his body at the memory of his first discovery of what it was really like living with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock smiled slightly, just a quirk at the edge of one of his lips.

“Why did you leave your girlfriend?” Sherlock’s question was blunt and completely out of nowhere. John reeled, startled.

“None of your business,” John snapped, his ears tinged pink out of embarrassment. Sherlock cocked his head, his gaze smug and all-knowing.

“So you can ask questions about my personal life all you would like, but I cannot ask any about yours?” Sherlock snorted, his delicate fingers shifting to rest on his stomach. “Boring.” John hated that it distracted him - that the long, pale fingers were drawing his attention away from what Sherlock had said, what he had meant.

“That’s not what I meant.” John sighed, his hand running distractedly through his hair. “It’s something I’d address in therapy, not here.” He paused, frowning at Sherlock. “If you don’t have a therapist, who do you talk to? I’m not exactly the best substitute, but I guess…if you need something, I’m here, yeah?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Boring, John.”

“Why the hell are you here, then?” John exploded, fed up. “You’ve got no interest in changing, in getting better. Do you ever plan to leave here? Or are you going to stagnate, going to fucking rot in this place? Stay who that bastard made you?” Sherlock shifted slightly, his pale eyes blank as he observed John’s constantly moving facial expressions. John, who had gone crimson from the tips of his ears down the back of his neck, grabbed his jacket and stomped on his boots. “I have go.” He had to get out of there. Had to flee, had to calm down before he did something he would regret.

“It’s late,” Sherlock observed dispassionately. “You might break curfew.”

“Fuck curfew,” John swore loudly. He threw open the door and stormed out, feeling Sherlock’s gaze on the back of his neck. Grabbing the knob at the base of the stairs he threw the door open so fast that it nearly snapped off in his hands. John wandered out of the building, feeling lost, almost consumed by his anger.

There was so much to think about, so much to absorb. Sherlock - Sherlock had been a prostitute. John’s brain nearly crashed at trying to fit the two words in the same sentence. Everything Justin had said had been confirmed, and Sherlock didn’t seem to care. It was a defense mechanism, and John knew it. He – he had observed it in himself, not long after he and Angelie had started dating. It was a way to distance oneself from reality, to prevent any type of emotional damage.

Even then, it hurt. Sherlock didn’t seem to care about anything. John searched his memory as well as he was able, trying to think if there was anything Sherlock seemed to actually take interest in.

The only thing that came up in his memory was him. Sherlock seemed to, at least a little bit, in some strange, Sherlockian way, care about John. The suicide attempt had been a real, authentic way that Sherlock had tried to reach out to him. What a way that had been, scaring John halfway to death. He scowled, settling down on the ground against the wall about 15 feet away from the open door frame. Even now he didn’t want to be far from Sherlock.

Did he care about the smug bastard? John thought about this for several minutes, fiddling with the end of his jumper absentmindedly. He thought of how he had fought Mycroft, of standing up for Sherlock when he barely knew him. John definitely cared for the other man. The thought made him cringe. How he could care for that stubborn, self-centered, emotionally stunted, insane human being he had no idea. His mindset shifted, the pieces falling into place. Human.

Sherlock was fallible, like everyone else. However, that was not something the man had accepted, or even considered an option. He had coped with the trauma he had faced by shoving it into some corner in his mind and attempting to delete it. He had made money when Mycroft threatened to cut him off the only way he knew how - with his body.

Those ten long months, or however long Sherlock had spent captured and tortured - they had broken him. John had thought he was broken. He let out a flat, mirthless snort. He had nothing on the puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes. The man was so fragile that even normal social interaction threatened to shatter his carefully constructed emotional structure. John felt so many pieces fall into place that it was dizzying; he couldn’t even begin to follow the rapid movement. Was this what Sherlock felt like, all the time? Thoughts assaulting him from all sides, relentless in their pursuit? No wonder the man was insane.

The bigger question was how to handle him. Get him a therapist? John snorted and rejected that idea outright. Sherlock would consider it laughable and might retreat deeper into the isolated, lonely place that was his mind. John had gotten a glimpse of what he supposed it would be like to have Sherlock’s brilliance and it was horrifying. “Sherlock the berk,” he murmured absentmindedly. No wonder Sherlock was broken, even without the abuse factored in. His intelligence had isolated him, gathering a reputation that preceded him.

The tip of an umbrella pressed into the ground just inside of John’s peripheral vision and John tensed. “Mycroft.”

“Dr. Watson.” Mycroft inclined his head slightly in greeting. “I take it you discovered parts of my younger brother’s unsavoury past?”

“That’s what they’re calling it, now?” John asked sarcastically. It didn’t work quite as well as he thought it would. Mycroft looked thoughtful, not annoyed. Damn Holmes.

“I have covered for him in the past.” There was a tremor in Mycroft’s voice that contrasted with his stiff posture, giving away the fact that Mycroft was not as composed as he would prefer. “Perhaps more than I should have.” Mycroft twisted the umbrella in his grasp and John tilted his head slightly to bring the tall man more into his field of vision. “Do you have siblings, Dr. Watson?”

“Just a sister,” John answered carefully.

“Mm,” Mycroft hummed, noncommittal. “Sherlock is a brilliant man. Not quite my level,” he added, a slight smirk dancing about his lips, “But brilliant nonetheless.”

“Yet he’s here. At Asylum. Bringing home men back to an empty room to -”

“Yes, I’m aware of what activities he chooses to indulge in, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft snapped, cutting him off. The hand not clutching the umbrella rubbed some tension out of his forehead. John saw the tight lines of muscle relax somewhat underneath the sharp creases of his immaculate suit. “I brought him here.”

“Why?” John asked, genuinely curious. He pulled his knees up to his chest, occasionally glancing up at Mycroft. He hated the Holmes for how tall they were. Just a little bit.

Mycroft hesitated. That showed John a lot more than he would ever admit. He knew that no matter what Mycroft said, or did, that little bit of hesitation demonstrated (to John, at least) that Mycroft truly cared about his brother. Even if he did show it by being an overbearing prat. “He needed help,” Mycroft said carefully. He was measuring each word he said, thinking solemnly before allowing them to pass his lips. “Asylum is well-equipped to handle men of his caliber, with his needs.” On anyone else it might have been a wry smile. On Mycroft it was an expression that made John cringe and fear for his safety – or would have, had he cared what Mycroft thought. “Or so I thought.”

“Sherlock surpassed what your expectations?”

“I’m afraid he does have a habit of doing things I haven’t thought of.” He exhaled slowly, the exasperated sigh of an older sibling whose younger just wouldn’t behave. John couldn’t blame him, really – he could only imagine what it had been like having Sherlock as a younger brother. It must have been a nightmare.

“I took his drugs away,” John told him. He figured it was likely Mycroft already knew. “The ones he felt like giving me, anyway. Then I searched the flat while he was out. He’s probably got some hiding elsewhere, though,” John added with a grimace.

“Sherlock could easily obtain more,” Mycroft pointed out. Rather gently for a Holmes, John thought. “He’s been an addict for a long time.” Mycroft shook his head. “I sincerely thought that Asylum would help him. However…”

“Look at what’s happened since then,” John finished for him. He actually felt sorry for Mycroft. Sorry for his inability to reach Sherlock. Sorry for the world’s inability to reach Sherlock. That no one seemed to care, or want to try. No wonder Sherlock took things out on the entire world. No one cared about him. Mycroft cared, but he was family. Family had an agenda, John knew from experience. With an alcoholic sister, he was quite familiar with the various agendas people could use to manipulate.

“You will look after him?” John couldn’t decide whether Mycroft was asking him or telling him. He nodded regardless. It was the right answer either way. Sherlock needed someone who was going to look out for his well-being at all times. John was no trained counselor, but he would try to fumble his way through his association with Sherlock nonetheless. If he was lucky he would even help.

Sherlock had - Sherlock had helped heal him. Or at least start the process. John’s hand unconsciously traced some of the scars underneath the jumper, scars that had long been committed to his memory through several sleepless nights. Yet the emotional ones were starting to fade. He didn’t think he was ready for a relationship any time soon - that was a whole different can of worms - but Sherlock had slotted the shattered pieces of John Watson back together and applied a copious amount of super glue.

For that, John would be forever grateful. The least he could do would be to help Sherlock out in return. He stood, stretching awkwardly when he realized that no matter how tall he attempted to make himself seem, Mycroft still had several inches on him. “I’d better be heading back,” he said with a yawn. John turned to walk back towards the room through the open door in the downstairs. He paused after several steps, looking backwards to see if Mycroft had moved. The auburn-haired man had simply disappeared. John raised his eyebrows, startled. “Scary.”

He stared at the door to the flat, hesitant. Would Sherlock guess that he’d been talking to Mycroft? Would he guess what Mycroft asked him? John knew the answer to both of those questions and cringed. It wasn’t going to be a fun conversation. If he was extremely lucky, he’d be able to avoid it. Talking about emotions with Sherlock was as fun as prying off his fingernails. He did what he had to, however. He wanted to help Sherlock. It was easier and easier to acknowledge Sherlock as his friend, even with his stunted emotions.

Said emotions were extremely repressed. Like tied up in a bundle, dropped into a ravine, and then covered in an avalanche repressed. He snorted at the mental image of Sherlock chucking his heart off of a cliff, then cringed at what it represented. Damn the man, he thought, angry and sad at the same time.

At the same time, fair was fair. If he was going to pry into Sherlock’s personal life, it gave Sherlock the right to pry into John’s. Sherlock deserved honesty and respect, two things which he seemed oddly unfamiliar. If he earned it, he deserved John’s trust. John just had to fervently, fervently hope that Sherlock wasn’t going to let him down.


	4. Between My Pride and My Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortest chapter so far, I know, but it seemed fitting to end it here. And I'm getting more ruthless with my editing. As usual, you can follow me at my tumblr [here!](http://iolre.tumblr.com) for ramblings/updates/etc.
> 
> Kudos and comments are love and help make editing this beast more bearable. :D

Slowly he got his legs working and walked up to their room. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for any sign of movement. Sherlock hadn’t left, that was for sure - or if he had, it was through an exit John didn’t know about. He hated to admit that it was more likely that there was at least one from their room that he was unaware of. “Sherlock?” John asked quietly, opening the door slowly enough to allow Sherlock time to react, if he needed it.

The room was silent, and John frowned. He walked inside, his heart thumping in his chest until he caught sight of the tall, lithe figure leaning over a microscope at the table. There was no sign of Sherlock’s earlier experiment. John was grateful he had at least cleaned up the fingers, even if Sherlock had probably just stuffed them in the trash.

He felt a bit sorry for the bloke that took out their rubbish, with what Sherlock shoved in there. Fingers, lungs - even the toes Sherlock somehow acquired last week found their way into the rubbish bin at some point. John chuckled to himself, catching Sherlock’s attention. He looked up to see the grey blue eyes narrowed at him, smiling cheerfully in return.

“What did my brother have to say this time?” Sherlock muttered darkly, his focus back on the knobs of the microscope and whatever he had applied to the slide that he was scrutinizing.

“Oh, the usual,” John answered evasively. He was sorting through the kitchen, wishing he could have a beer. Damn the no-alcohol rule. It certainly would help smooth things over. Instead he pulled out their electric kettle, checking it over before filling it with water and flicking the switch on. He rummaged through the cupboards, searching for his favorite brand of tea.

“There is no usual with my brother,” Sherlock said, scowling at the microscope. “What else did he tell you? Some sordid tale about me?” John shrugged evasively as the kettle sounded its readiness. He poured the water into his mug, the teabag swirling around as the water lifted it from the bottom. Finally Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table.

John jumped, his adrenaline thrumming through his veins, setting all of his senses on alert. It was like the days right after he was invalided home again, when any loud noise sent him hurtling under his bed. “Dammit John, tell me!” Sherlock shouted. John was thankful he had sat the kettle back down on the counter before Sherlock lost his temper. He doubted the nurse would be pleased to treat burns in the middle of the night, provided she was even awake.

“Sherlock, I was handling boiling water!” John half-shouted back, attempting to slow his racing pulse. It was even harder to pull his temper back under control, to resist the impulses built from long days under the desert sun.

“I don’t - I don’t care about the boiling water. Tell. Me. What. Mycroft. Said,” Sherlock forced out through gritted teeth, his hands clenched around the edge of the table. John forced himself to take a sip of the tea before even thinking about responding, hoping the familiar warmth would calm him some. Sherlock was standing now, his knuckles white.

“I think you’re denting the table,” John pointed out mildly. While his heart was still beating far too fast for his comfort level, he was calmer now, his rapid pulse the only indication of his earlier upset. His eyes were calm on Sherlock’s, the contrast vivid as Sherlock glared fiercely at him. John hid it, but Sherlock’s reaction had frightened him. He hadn’t expected that level of vehemence from the man who was normally calm and collected, the one who had told John that he was a prostitute without a hint of shame

“Screw the table.” Sherlock scowled down at it like it was personally insulting him. “Mycroft.” His laser-focus bore into John’s face as if trying to burn the secrets out of him.

“Nothing,” John said calmly, shrugging again as he took another sip of the tea. “He said nothing important, Sherlock.” Sherlock let go of the table and walked over to the sofa, throwing himself dramatically upon it. John had to stop himself from rolling his eyes at the obvious petulance in the gesture.

“He confirmed what I told you, and - and something else.” Sherlock’s voice held a note of frustration. John raised an eyebrow, interested but wary at the same time. “What else did he tell you? Did he offer you more money? Women? Men? What?”

John snorted. “Why would he offer me women? Or men, for that matter,” he added with a mutter.

“John, you’re dancing about the question,” Sherlock was dripping with disdain, his ‘why is everyone else so stupid’ tone that John had long learned to not take offense at. Mostly, anyways. “It must be really important, then.” Sherlock’s voice took on the quality when he was deducing someone, his eyes raking intently over John’s face, studying every movement the military doctor made. John sighed, settling against the kitchen counter for the long haul. “You’re relaxed, so it can’t - it can’t be anything negative, or if it is, you’ve accepted it and aren’t bothered by it.” Sherlock frowned, the expression creating a crease in his brow. He looked – vulnerable, almost. As if he was genuinely fearful of what John had learned. Was he afraid it was going to be the last straw, be what sent John running?

“He asked me to take care of you.” John made a show out of taking another sip of his tea. Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes.

“I highly doubt that,” he muttered. John shrugged, taking a bigger gulp of his tea. He set another cup steeping, knowing he would need a second cuppa before the conversation was over. Picking up his mug, he watched as Sherlock’s face flickered, multiple expressions passing over his features in a multitude of emotions. Sherlock seemed satisfied by whatever he saw in John’s face, for he seemed to calm at least a little. That was progress.

It was unnerving, John thought. Sherlock was still sulking on the sofa, although John could feel the strange eyes focus on him when Sherlock must have thought he wasn’t looking. It was like John was a particularly interesting puzzle that needed far more study before Sherlock would be able to fully deduce his secrets. Pulling out Sherlock’s tea bag and tossing it into the rubbish bin, John walked over to the sofa, placing Sherlock’s mug down onto the coffee table next to him. He took a seat in the armchair not far from the sofa, sipping his own mug, relishing the hot liquid flowing down his throat.

“I was invalided home from Afghanistan about six months ago,” John said slowly. His eyes were focused in front of him, on the wall. He didn’t look at Sherlock. He couldn’t look at Sherlock. He closed his eyes, opening them with a small sigh. “Angelie was one of the first women I met once I was out of the hospital. A friend introduced her to me, set us up. I was pretty down, when I got out.” He paused, a thread of pain entering his voice. “She was perfect.”

John couldn’t help running a shaky hand through his hair. He felt Sherlock had a right to know. Sherlock was right, like he always was. How could John ask so much of Sherlock without giving at least a little bit in return? Fighting the thoughts about why, he forced himself to continue. “She was - wonderful. For the first - for the first couple of months, anyway.” The memories flashed through his mind, his eyes going slightly hazy as he got lost in the past.

“Things were wonderful. I’ve always been a nice bloke, or so I’m told. I was eager to - to lose myself in her, to forget the war, to forget all the lives I’d taken.” He shuddered slightly, adjusting his grip on the warm mug in his hands. Taking another mouthful, he continued. “Something changed, not long after we’d been together two months. She invited me to move in. I’d been living with a friend - not much money in being invalided home, that’s for sure.” John’s mouth twisted in a slightly self-deprecating sneer. “She told me it’d be more economical. I believed her.” He exhaled slowly, a shuddering breath that was at odds with his steady voice.

Sherlock was silent, his gaze intent on John. John shivered a bit under the intensity, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He took a deep breath and another sip of the tea, shifting his position slightly to be more comfortable. “The first time, she slapped me. Yelled at me a bit, told me it was my fault.” He sighed. “It was so easy to believe that it was something I’d done. Never been real confident, not in relationships. Good natured, faithful, yes, but not confident.” Scratching the side of his nose absently, he gathered himself. “It escalated from there. I was looking at other women, or fucking them, or whatever she told me that day. I was always in the wrong, it was always my fault. Sometimes it’d be just a slap, sometimes, the really bad days, she would beat me, for a lack of better terminology.” John shuddered slightly in his chair.

“I never reacted,” he mused, sipping the tea between words. “Never hit her back. It - it wasn’t right, hitting a woman.” He shook his head. “No matter how many times she hit me - or kicked me, or…” John trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence. Some things were best kept to himself. “Anyway. I didn’t.” The pain leaked into his voice, and he hated it for making him sound so weak. So unworthy. He knew it wasn’t true - the month or more of therapy had taught him something, had restored his more conscious, worthwhile mind to the surface - yet still, the memory hurt.

“One night I had a drink with a group of army buddies. One of them happened to be a woman.” His body tensed at the thought of that night, of the single beer he’d had, how it hadn’t been nearly enough to compensate for the lack of memory he had dealt with the next morning. He sneered at the wall, defensive. “She nearly killed me that night.” There wasn’t anything more to say. Sherlock could read what had happened in the bruises John wore like battle scars when he arrived to Asylum. That’s what they were, in a way. The words had been painful, his heart still thudding in his chest from the effort it had taken to tell Sherlock what he had. If he insisted on prying into Sherlock’s background, it was only fair for him to know John’s. He started fidgeting as the silence dragged on for long, uncomfortable minutes.

“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock said flatly. John bristled in his chair. “How could you believe such ridiculous notions?”

“Bit not good, Sherlock,” John muttered scathingly. Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting up on the sofa, his piercing gaze boring into John’s face.

“I don’t understand.”

“I doubt you’ll ever understand,” John said with a shrug, ignoring Sherlock’s narrowed expression. “You don’t seem so good with emotions.” He paused, thinking. “What do you mean, they’re ridiculous notions?”

“Thinking you could ever be a bad - boyfriend, if you will - is ridiculous. You possess all the qualities of a desirable mate and therefore appeal to most women - and men, if you feel so inclined.” Sherlock gestured up and down with his hand, indicating not only John’s body, but continuing on to point a finger at his head. “You have a physique that women find desirable and you seem to exhibit several desired personality traits. It’s ridiculous to think that you were undesirable or unworthy.” Sherlock paused to think. “Much less that you deserved to be beaten,” he muttered. “If you really wanted that, there are several clubs that you could go to instead of getting with that woman.”

John stared at Sherlock for a full minute, his mouth hanging open. Sherlock was looking at him, mildly puzzled as to why John wasn’t saying anything. John was trying to wrap his head around what Sherlock had said. He couldn’t fit it in his mind, couldn’t fit it around what Sherlock had said, what he meant. It did not compute. “John?” Sherlock asked tentatively. “Was that…not good?” He frowned as if the silence hanging about in the air was physically hurting him.

“That was…good.” John blinked at the wall, still trying to focus. “No, you did well. Just - just give me a bit to catch up with it.”

Sherlock frowned at him. It wasn’t a negative expression, the downturn of his lips more puzzled than truly unhappy, an indicator of a lack of understanding. Deciding it wasn’t relevant, he laid back down on the sofa, steepling his fingers under his chin. John pondered what he had said. Apparently Sherlock had deemed him worthy. What puzzled John the most was Sherlock’s motivation for saying what he had. Was he envious? John doubted Sherlock really could envy anyone for anything, except maybe easier access to human body parts. He did not seem to be slave to the normal human emotions of guilt, shame, or embarrassment. It was an odd contradiction in a man who could have much to be embarrassed about. There was much that Sherlock didn’t share, however, and even John did not know what lurked beyond what he showed to the world.

“Thanks, Sherlock,” John said quietly. Sherlock looked at him and John matched his gaze, soft and open. Sherlock’s expression was borderline vulnerable, yet so intensely guarded that John could not see what simmered under his eyes. It was raw, and real, and broken, and it disappeared nearly as quickly as John had noticed it. “I’m sorry,” he added. Sherlock said nothing.

Apparently dismissing it as meaningless sentiment, Sherlock gathered his pyjamas and walked into the bathroom. John listened as he heard the shower turn on before he changed quickly into his own pyjamas. One could never bargain with exactly how long Sherlock would stay in the shower. Could be until the water went cool, could be thirty seconds until he got distracted by something or a new idea came to him. He grimaced at the thought of sleep, a twinge of worry in his chest. Would he ever be able to sleep without worrying about Sherlock? Without seeing that vial, the hospital bed, those anxious hours when he had no idea if Sherlock would ever come back to him again - back to life, he clarified quickly. Not to him.

He crawled into bed, aware that it wasn’t likely that he would fall asleep any time soon. His mind was whirling rapidly, going over everything that had happened. He sighed. Was this what Sherlock was like all the time? No wonder the man would not rest. John replayed everything - Sherlock’s drastic suicide attempt, the knowledge he had gained, Sherlock’s reaction to John’s story, his dismissal of the idea of him needing any help. He wanted to help Sherlock - he truly did. How to go about doing so was another issue.

Sherlock would likely reject any straight offer of assistance. He seemed contemptuous over the possibility of anything done to his transport harming his mind. Was he right? Had he removed himself so thoroughly from the burdens of his body that anything that happened to him had no bearing on his future? John doubted that it was the case, but he was also realistic in that there was little he could do to change Sherlock’s mind on the matter.

The next two months passed quickly. Sherlock would still disappear during the day - John had made no progress on that front - but he was quieter and less rude to the other people in their building when he would come across them (which was thankfully rare). His experiments had migrated to John’s half of the apartment - in designated areas, mapped out after particularly enthusiastic arguments in which John shouted and Sherlock merely stared at him until he had ran out of steam and stormed out the door.

It was oddly like arguing with himself, or with a wall. A wall probably had more emotional maturity, he mused. John had drifted through therapy and group one particularly boring day. After his experience with therapy in the military hospitals, he was familiar enough with the protocols to fake the good results that his therapist was looking for. He had already started to hint about John leaving Asylum, returning to the real world. He had politely - and emphatically - refused. Sherlock needed him. John was starting to think that - just a little bit - Sherlock wanted him there. Even if he didn’t know it yet.

Yawning, John trudged up the stairs to their room, covering his mouth with a hand as he dutifully opened the door. He blanched as the smell wafted out. What the hell had his batty flatmate done this time? “Sherlock!” he yelled, walking in and leaving the door open behind him. There were beakers full of nasty goo on the table and John glared at them, affronted. He walked past to open the three windows he could get to, trying to let some of the stench out.

Sherlock popped his head out of the bathroom, his pale face blank and unassuming. It was his usual mask, one that rarely slipped when anyone was around. Sometimes - just sometimes - when Sherlock was asleep, John saw what was carefully hidden underneath it, got a glimpse of what haunted the strange man who shared his room. John was aware that Sherlock slept guarded most times, unless he was truly, truly exhausted. He refused to think about why that was.

The times he slept and was truly vulnerable were rare. Sometimes John would sit and watch Sherlock’s eyes move around underneath his eyelids, the twitch of his fingers as he dreamt, the noises he would make as he tossed and turned. His hair would go all curly and crazy and his face would slacken just slightly, allowing the childlike innocence to appear beneath all the gawky angles and cheekbones and sharp edges that normally characterized the frenetically energetic man.

The edges would return when Sherlock woke up. Sometimes he would watch John from across the room while he made tea. Most of the time he would ignore him. John figured that he either didn’t notice the way John would watch him, or, more likely, he simply didn’t care. Sherlock didn’t seem to really think too much about what everyone else did, or why.

The thought amused John, for Sherlock had quite the collection of crime novels, several of which focused primarily on criminal behavior. Although John hadn’t had a chance to investigate the majority of the books on Sherlock’s bookcase, he’d nosed through the specially bound ones a few weeks ago, glimpsing enough to figure out their contents. They were older murder mysteries. It had surprised him, although he hadn’t bothered asking Sherlock about it.

“What’s on the table?” John asked patiently. Sherlock regarded him coolly.

“It’s an experiment,” he answered curtly. “Far above your level of intelligence.” His voice was cool and dismissive, and John counted to ten in his head before he allowed himself to speak, his gaze drifting from the vials to the man perched in the doorway to the bathroom.

“Can you please remove it from the table?” Sherlock snorted dismissively, and John crossed his arms.

“It’s at a particularly critical stage, John. I can’t disturb it.” Sherlock shuffled out of the bathroom. It was then that John noticed Sherlock was only half-dressed. He seemed to not have bothered to put a shirt on and his dressing gown was not tied, hanging open as he sauntered around the kitchen to reveal flat panes of smooth abdomen. John’s stomach clenched, just a bit, before he forced Sherlock’s body out of his thoughts. Forever. He hoped.

“It smells,” John protested firmly. Part of him wondered why he had even brought it up, having predicted Sherlock’s reaction. It was not the first time John had objected to one of Sherlock’s experiments, although this was the most noxious one John had witnessed. Experiments always took priority with Sherlock, even when any normal apartment would have evicted him ages ago. Pausing, John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock narrowed his in return, suspicious. “Do you ever plan to leave Asylum?” John asked suddenly, shifting so that he was comfortable leaning against the wall at the entrance to their room.

Sherlock’s gaze was clearly assessing, his hands pausing against one of the beakers on the table as he settled down into the chair nearest him. The beaker seemed to be smoking, John noticed, alarmed. He wondered if there were fire extinguishers in the flat. It was then that John had to chuckle to himself, realizing that the thought didn’t alarm him. His definition of normal had shifted so far after living with Sherlock that it was nearly unrecognizable. “No.” Curt and dismissive of the idea. Sherlock considered it pedestrian, beneath him.

“The real world too scary for you?” He had figured Sherlock wouldn’t ever leave. Not that he’d made enough progress, regardless. There was something tense to Sherlock’s demeanour, something that sent off warning bells in John’s head. He paused, looking Sherlock up and down more clinically.

“I haven’t been using,” Sherlock muttered. Even from the side he must have noticed the change in John’s assessment.

“What gave me away?” John asked, curious. Sherlock’s eyes were focused on a beaker held in front of him, although they flickered to John every few seconds. He lowered the glass container, tilting its content into a labeled test tube.

“You sighed just a bit, and you were looking at me. Something made you wistful, yet it was about me. Then you narrowed your eyes and started looking at me, lingering especially on my arms and my face. Looking for signs of drug usage would be the most probable answer.” Sherlock shrugged as if that wasn’t particularly impressive.

“Amazing,” John breathed quietly. Even if it wasn’t astonishing to Sherlock, it never ceased to impress John when he deduced things so quickly from such little to go on.

“Rudimentary,” Sherlock retorted, although John could have sworn that he was at least the tiniest bit pleased at John’s compliment. There was a hint of colour on his cheekbones that hadn’t been there prior, and John smiled.

It was quiet in their flat for a few long moments, John wondering how to break the silence. “Would you take a test if I asked you to?” he asked quietly, looking at Sherlock, his eyes as serious as his tone. He didn’t think he was using, but he wanted to see if Sherlock would be willing to prove his sobriety.

Sherlock sighed. “Yes.” He paused. “Would you be able to test it?” he inquired doubtfully. John smiled.

“I have my sources,” he said with a grin. John straightened further against the wall, watching Sherlock intently for any hint of deception. He had gotten to know Sherlock better, over the time they had known each other. He would never profess to be an expert in the man, but he’d seen such a wide variety in Sherlock’s moods that he was starting to be able to read him far better than anyone else. Except maybe Mycroft, he amended. But that was the advantage to being a Holmes.

“Thank you,” John said quietly, walking over to Sherlock’s bookshelves to pick something to read. Sherlock was obviously absorbed in his experiments, and John was going to take advantage of the peace and quiet while it lasted. He settled on his bed, the book perched in his hands. It probably wouldn’t last very long, he reflected wistfully. Sherlock was bound to make something explode or catch on fire, and then the room would drown in a sea of arguments and yelling and fire and it just wasn’t very peaceful.

John glanced up from his book to see Sherlock staring at him with narrowed, icy eyes. Meeting them with a quizzical expression, John attempted to figure out what exactly Sherlock was looking for. Sherlock looked away nearly as soon as John’s eyes met his and John turned back to his book with a shrug. If it was important, Sherlock would tell him himself. Or not. Not was the more likely answer. Sherlock rarely talked to anyone, even John, although he did tend to go off on rants about his experiments more often than not. Or he was raving about how vapid humanity was. John was never sure whether to be complimented or insulted when Sherlock told him he was just a hair above the rest of the world.

Although from Sherlock, it was possible the two were inseparable. The man had the social skills of an extremely deaf newt. No offense to the newt. The book he had pulled from Sherlock’s shelves was interesting, at least. He sighed as he flipped to the fifth page. On the top of the page, written in Sherlock’s elegant scrawl, was the murderer’s identity.

“I’m surprised it took you to page five,” he called out to the other side of the room. Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes.

“I’m surprised I even made it to page five,” he retorted. “Boring, John. They could at least try to not be obvious.”

John rolled his own eyes and went back to reading. Even knowing who the murderer was, it was still an enjoyable read. What surprised him was Sherlock’s continued silence. Most of the times Sherlock caught him reading mystery novels, he would deduce where John was and provide a running commentary until John gave up and put the book away. Often when John glanced away from the printed page he would notice Sherlock staring at him. He was pleased to discover that it no longer bothered him. At first he hadn’t been able to read when Sherlock’s clear eyes were focused on him - the scrutiny was that intense. Now he didn’t even flinch. Sometimes he didn’t even notice.

He did notice when Sherlock stood up and started pacing about the couch, muttering dramatically to himself as he gestured wildly. “Careful,” John murmured, flipping the page as he continued to read. If Sherlock wasn’t careful, he’d walk into something. The janitorial staff had added some shelves that hung near Sherlock’s head (although they were stationed above John’s eye level), and John had already seen several near misses. A solid thunk confirmed John’s worst suspicions and he sighed and sat the book down, dog-earing the page he had been reading.

Sherlock had walked into one of the shelves - probably when he was turning to yell at John for what he said - and knocked himself out. The couch, John decided. Sherlock could rest on the couch. Glad he hadn’t lost all his muscle tone from his time in the army, he was able to heave Sherlock’s long and rather heavy body up until the taller man was arranged haphazardly on the cushions.

Tucking the dressing gown more firmly about the illusively lithe body, John looked Sherlock’s head over quickly. He’d do a neuro check when Sherlock woke up. For now, Sherlock was fine resting on the couch. It was late anyways. Grabbing the clothes from his dresser, John walked into the bathroom and changed rapidly into his pyjamas. He could shower in the morning. For now he wasn’t very comfortable leaving a vulnerable Sherlock by himself.

Walking out of the bathroom, John headed over to Sherlock. Fingers deftly felt for a pulse on the inside of Sherlock’s wrist, eyes focused on the clock on the wall to gauge a number. It was high, but not unusually so. His blood pressure seemed okay, but John knew the palpation technique he used was a very rough guess. Respirations were normal. If he had to guess, John thought that the surprise and the impact knocked Sherlock out, although his status was not helped by a low blood sugar. The man really needed to eat more..

Gingerly John moved a curl out of Sherlock’s face. The intimacy of the contact surprised him and he withdrew with a thoughtful frown, shelving any thoughts relating to Sherlock’s hair back to the same corner inhabited by other strange things pertaining to his flatmate. Sherlock moaned softly, a hand automatically going to his head as he shifted. “You’re likely to have a bad headache,” John murmured, keeping his voice soft. Head injuries often came with headaches and if the thud had been any indication, he would have a nasty one. “Let me get you some paracetamol.”

By the time John came back from the kitchen with two small white tablets and a glass halfway full of water, Sherlock’s eyes were opened and focused on him. “Open up,” John said quietly, waiting for Sherlock to open his hand. Sherlock leaned up and used his tongue and mouth to swipe the pills from John’s flat palm before he snatched the glass of water, drinking its contents quickly. John blinked a few times before he wiped his palm off on his pyjama pants.

The cup was back in John’s hands before he had moved away, empty. Sherlock’s head was back on the arm of the sofa and he was staring up at the ceiling. John stepped back, studying Sherlock. He was guarded, John decided, although there was something alarmingly fragile lurking under the surface. It was oddly reminiscent of glass about to shatter.

“Why do you care?” Sherlock asked abruptly, startling John out of his thoughts. To gather some time and to figure out how to respond to Sherlock’s question, John walked to the small kitchen they shared, washing the glass carefully in the sink.

“What do you mean?” John dried the cup with the cleanest towel he could find, seeking clarification. Sherlock could be asking about a number of things. Turning to face Sherlock, he crossed his arms over his chest. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like this conversation.

“Is it because you’re a doctor?” Sherlock mused aloud. John wondered if he had forgotten that he was in the room. “Possibly, although you’ve mostly done emergency work, you seem to prefer GP patients.” Sherlock frowned at the ceiling. “Sentiment? Possibly.” He made a frustrated noise and John had to fight to hide a smile. Remembering that he had intended to do a neuro exam, John walked over and crouched next to Sherlock.

“Touch your nose and touch my finger.” John held a finger not far from his face, watching intently.

“You can’t possibly intend to make me perform like a trained monkey,” Sherlock spat out, glaring furiously at the ceiling. His head must be smarting, John thought with an inward chuckle.

“Your nose, Sherlock. My finger. I’ll make you sit up if I have to.” His voice was patient, his finger steady. With a grumpy noise Sherlock complied. John continued the exam, testing his muscle strength and responsiveness in his arms and legs, although he was nice and skipped the coordination test when everything else was reassuringly normal. He had doubted that Sherlock had actually injured himself through the fall. It was more for John’s peace of mind than anything. “Do you remember what happened?” John asked, his voice soft.

Sherlock scowled, looking like he wanted to flip onto his side. “The paracetamol should kick in in about twenty, thirty minutes,” he told Sherlock. The scowl deepened and John chuckled despite himself. “I’ll take that as a yes, you remember,” he told Sherlock’s sulking form.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Sherlock turned his head this time, piercing John with his unrelenting gaze. John stood, not surprised that Sherlock had gone back to his earlier train of thought. The man was determined at the worst of times.

“You didn’t answer mine,” John responded. He walked back to his bed, settling against the headboard so he was comfortable, the book he had been reading back in his hands. He could see Sherlock on the sofa comfortably from here. Sherlock made a face and John steadily ignored him. Sherlock wasn’t the only one who had increased levels of patience. As an army sniper, most of John’s work had been waiting. Lots of waiting. His medical training was only used for half of his job.

Sherlock made a frustrated noise. “Why do you care?”

“What do you mean?” John retorted patiently, opening the book to where he had left off

“My head hurts,” Sherlock muttered, long fingers massaging his temples.

“I’d imagine it does,” John answered. “The paracetamol should kick in relatively soon. You should get at least some relief.”

Sherlock flipped on his side this time without nearly the normal amount of flair. John hid a smile at the lack of drama. “I saw that,” Sherlock muttered.

“No you didn’t,” John responded absentmindedly, his eyes back on his book. He glanced over. Sherlock’s fingers were toying with the fabric of the sofa, their movements as moody as their owner. A faint smile danced across John’s lips as he watched Sherlock. The genius was still muttering to himself, although John only caught snippets of the nonsensical words and never a full sentence.

Sherlock seemed to take an eternity, turning over multiple questions in his head before settling on one. “Why did you not ask for a new roommate?” John lifted an eyebrow at the question, settling the book on his crossed ankles as he thought it over.

“I don’t need one,” he answered finally. Closing the book on his lap, he studied Sherlock intently, looking for tells in his facial expressions.

“Why not?” Sherlock prompted immediately. “You’ve put up with quite a bit without leaving.”

“You’re seeking reassurance, aren’t you?” John was slotting the pieces together faster than he had thought possible. Sherlock harrumphed and stayed where he was, his back towards John.

“No,” Sherlock muttered petulantly. John was delighted to see a red flush decorate the back of Sherlock’s neck and ears. So the man could show emotion! Something shifted and John looked up from where he was perched on the bed, his eyes narrowing. Sherlock was making a whispery gasping sound as he breathed, and his respiratory rate had sped up significantly. Putting the book aside, John slid off of his bed and stepped closer. Sherlock’s body was shaking, pupils dilated, eyes wide, staring at nothing. His breathing accelerated, coming faster and in short, little gasps - hyperventilating

“Sherlock,” John murmured, trying to gain the man’s attention. He repeated his name again, louder. “You’re having a panic attack.” Sherlock was gasping for air now, his fingers clenching about the fabric of the sofa as he fought to draw in air. “Not good,” John tried to pry Sherlock’s fingers from the sofa. Steadily he levered Sherlock up until he was sitting up. He slipped behind Sherlock, desperate to try and bring him down from the height of his fear. John was running through his medical knowledge in his head. Most of the techniques he knew of were only useful in medical settings, and he lacked any of the drugs that were commonly used to combat the anxiety symptoms.

Sherlock’s knuckles were white from the force of his grasp and John’s heart clenched. He was so lost, and so broken. Making a split-second decision to comfort he slid onto the couch and leaned Sherlock against his chest, wrapping his arms about the man’s torso. Immediately Sherlock turned on his side with his back against the rear of the couch. This seemed to be his preferred position, based on the way he normally splayed out on the couch,but in this case Sherlock dragged John down with him until John was sprawled onto his back with Sherlock half draped over him. It was awkward.

For one, he was stuck on a couch. With another man - with Sherlock. Sherlock, who was slowly coming down from a panic attack, whose fingers were now twined tightly at the hip of John’s pyjama pants, his free hand plucking absently at the fabric of John’s shirt. John was glad he could see Sherlock’s face from where he was sitting and could gauge his reaction to the situation. He looked so breakable. Sherlock was still staring into the distance, looking at things that weren’t really there. However, his breathing had slowed down and he was no longer shaking like an active addict.

John looked down and realized that one of his hands was stroking Sherlock’s sweat-soaked curls while he murmured reassurance. His mind attempted to point out that he was currently cuddled up to another man - Sherlock, of all men - and he ruthlessly forced it down. He was well aware that if he thought about it too long he would likely bolt out of the room, and he didn’t want to leave Sherlock in this state. John felt the tension seep from Sherlock’s body and he grew heavier against John as he slipped into a deeper sleep.

Eventually Sherlock’s breathing evened out and John guessed he was asleep. Hoping he’d be able to sneak back to his bed, John slowly and steadily attempted to pry Sherlock’s fingers out of his clothing. It didn’t work as well as John would have liked. Every time John tried to remove himself from Sherlock’s grasp, he clung on tighter. It felt like he was being hugged by an extremely clingy iron bar. “Guess I’m sleeping on the sofa.”

Trying steadily to ignore the strangeness of having another man plastered on top of him, John shifted uncomfortably until he had settled into a more comfortable position. It wasn’t the same as sleeping in his bed. For one, his bed was Sherlock free and John had never appreciated that more. The man was like an octopus. Every time John tried to pull away, Sherlock clung more. Every time John touched him, Sherlock leaned into it unconsciously. John tried hard to not think about what that indicated about Sherlock’s history. The man seemed positively touch-starved.

Curled up against his roommate, John finally drifted off into a restless sleep. He’d worry about the consequences later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update is going to be July 6th! Trying to get this all posted up before I leave for graduate school, so the pace is accelerating. I'll be writing part 2 for Camp NaNo so I'm hoping to get the first chapter of that up mid-August so no one kills me. :D Yeah.


	5. But Trying to be Genuine Was Harder Than it Seemed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a bit out of hand size-wise, because when I edited it there was a lot I had left out that needed to be added in, and some things didn't make sense. My beta is out of town, so all errors are my own. :D
> 
> Next update in two weeks because I have to basically re-write more than half of the next chapter, if not more. I'm also prepping to move, so my writing time is less than normal. You can follow me for updates at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com).
> 
> I did up the rating due to a scene near the end of this chapter and a few new tags were added. Yet another warning for triggers. Someone gets injured, someone gets propositioned, and someone has a crisis.

John had woken up in his own bed. The only hint that anything was different was how neatly he was tucked in. It was enough to prove to John that what had happened was not a dream but instead a strangely odd reality. Something had shifted, however, and Sherlock’s behavior took a turn for the worse. The next two weeks had sorely tested John’s patience and twice he had found himself contemplating asking for a roommate change. It had taken more effort than Sherlock would appreciate for John to just grit his teeth and bear it. He lost count of the times he had told himself that Sherlock wasn’t really that bad. It had become his mantra. John was hoping if he kept repeating it, he might actually believe it.

Sherlock had resumed playing his violin and had decided that the only appropriate hours to play were between one and five am. What was even worse was that he would play silly little nothing tunes or simply just grate harshly on the strings, the harsh noises sending shivers down John’s spine. Everything seemed designed especially to get on John’s nerves.

After the third night of being woken up, John had dropped by the store and picked up a veritable mother lode of earplugs. Even if he didn’t use them all up now, he had a feeling they could come in handy later. If that plan didn’t come to fruition, Sherlock would probably steal some for experiments later. He had no boundaries when it came to someone else’s belongings.

Sherlock had also taken to staring pointedly at John, sometimes for hours. The gaze had been disconcerting at first, but John had learned now to adapt to nearly anything and was able to read a book and ignore his flatmate’s eccentricities. Their routine had not changed. John still made Sherlock tea, still attempted to convince him to eat something – but he was having far less success than he had prior. Sherlock wasn’t eating and he was starting to lose what little extra weight he had. It worried the doctor part of John immensely, although logically he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do to change Sherlock’s behavior. What John was most concerned with was how Sherlock was wearing exclusively long-sleeved shirts and getting combative if the military doctor was around when he took them off or even rolled up the sleeves. It was not a good sign.

John looked over at his roommate who was sulking on the couch, his fingers picking constantly at the fabric like they always did. It was Sherlock’s version of a bored or nervous twitch, John had long decided. Either that or he just liked the texture of the sofa. Sherlock’s hand flew out to grab his phone and brought it closer to his face. John could see in the set of his muscles that he was scowling at it.

With a full-body stretch Sherlock was standing and grabbing an assortment of things from various drawers. Was he finally going to get out of his dressing gown? John watched with mild curiosity as Sherlock started muttering darkly in a language that didn’t sound like English. Whatever he was saying, he certainly didn’t sound pleased.

“I have to go,” Sherlock said finally. He stood and looked at John, those blue eyes watching him intensely for a few moments, seeing anything and everything, before he disappeared into the bathroom. John blinked a few times before returning to the book he was reading on his bed. When Sherlock wasn’t behaving oddly, their little room was quiet and peaceful. John had done more reading in the past couple months than he had in years.

“Where are you going?” he asked mildly, raising his voice so that Sherlock could hear him in the bathroom. Frankly, he was surprised that Sherlock had told him he was going out. That was unusual for him. Normally he just left with no word to anyone.

A few minutes later Sherlock came through the door. He was dressed in his usual clothing - a tight-fitting button down shirt and sleek, well-fitted trousers. Not that John was looking, of course. Sherlock paused as he was reaching for the blazer that matched his trousers, frowning. He grabbed a piece of paper and jotted something down before shoving it at John. “What’s this?” John inquired. It looked like a set of numbers. A combination? A phone number? A code to the experiments in the refrigerator? One never knew with Sherlock.

“My phone number.” Sherlock looked anywhere but John’s face. John lifted an eyebrow. The other man scuffed the floor, the very picture of awkward embarrassment. “Mycroft needs me for something and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“Do you have mine, then?” John asked. As soon as the words left his mouth he realized how stupid they sounded. He didn’t really use the phone that basically lived in the bottom of his nightstand, but now he had a reason. Sherlock gave him a look that confirmed the thought and John rolled his eyes, amusement peppering his expression.

“Good bye, John.” Sherlock paused at the door one last time and the doctor felt uneasy. The look Sherlock was giving him was - John didn’t even know what to call it. It was sad and hopeful and wistful and there were so many emotions crossing through his face that John didn’t even know where to start. He just hoped he’d see Sherlock again before too long. John jumped as the door shut with a click and he was left alone in their flat.

He stared at the door for a few moments. The flat felt strangely empty with Sherlock gone. He walked over to sofa and sat down in Sherlock’s normal spot, feeling oddly rebellious. Pulling the paper out and smoothing the creases, he noted the number. Realizing he had to get his phone from the nightstand, John slipped the mobile into his pocket, choosing to settle down on his bed. It was mere minutes before he pulled his phone out. Slowly he entered the number, careful to ensure that he was texting the right person. He jolted when his phone buzzed before he could finish composing a text. ‘Proper people use both hands. SH’ John scowled at the screen. 

He wasn’t surprised at all. Typing slowly - and with just one finger - he sent a text back and then snapped his mobile shut in a semi-dramatic fashion. ‘We’re not all posh gits like you. JW’

John grinned as he settled back on the bed, leaving the mobile next to him. At least while Sherlock was gone he would have something to entertain him. His mind trickled to the next topic and he glanced habitually at the clock. Late in the afternoon. He went back to the book, trying to focus. It just wasn’t the same with Sherlock gone. There was no anticipating what he would get up to next, no handling the odd things Sherlock decided to throw his way. He had gotten used to the stares, to Sherlock’s quirks, and John had not anticipated how empty it would feel with the other man missing. Having attempted to sit still for a few moments and bask in the quiet, John gave up. Maybe there were some people in the rec room that would be willing to help him release some tension. Air hockey was fantastic for that.

John stopped by the store for cleaning supplies on the way home. He had went and chatted with Mike for a bit, about generic and everyday topics that were inconsequential. The normality felt strange, yet John cherished it, for he was not likely to experience any such thing once Sherlock returned. Then he had went to the recreation room and had destroyed anyone who had dared challenge him to a game of air hockey. For all he was short, he was bested by no man.

Having bought enough cleaning supplies to last his flat all of a week once Sherlock had returned, John looked over the room with a careful, measured stare. Sherlock was quite a hazard as a roommate. The counters and table were absolutely covered in Sherlock’s experiments. Even the floor was littered with various bits of equipment and assorted debris. Since Sherlock was going to be gone for a while, John decided to take advantage of his absence and give the entire flat a deep clean. He also ignored the fact that it would allow him to go through all of Sherlock’s things. 

Although he had gone through Sherlock’s belongings when checking for drugs, that was more of a cursory look. Now, with their room quiet and empty, he had time to look deeper. He had to admit that he was curious to learn more about Sherlock, for John knew there was much he didn’t know about his history. John was certain there was things Sherlock would never share, wounds so intensely deep that no one would ever know their true extent. He acted so tough, so disconnected, but he was so human than it tugged at John’s heartstrings. John had no doubt that he knew Sherlock better than most people - with the possible exception of Mycroft - yet that still seemed to count for nothing.

It was - in a word - fascinating. John wasn’t sure why Sherlock’s mystery captivated him so. His flatmate was the most aggravating person he’d ever met, arrogant and petulant in turn, but he was also the smartest human being John had ever encountered. His brilliance never failed to astound John. It was a far cry from some of the blokes he had dealt with in the army. Given orders they would be fine, but if they tried to think for themselves, everything would go to hell.

The bathroom first. John grabbed the supplies required and strode purposefully inside. It wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. Sherlock’s pyjamas and dressing gowns were thrown around recklessly, but there didn’t seem to be any experiments. He was proven wrong when he opened the cabinet under the sink and nearly gagged from the smell. Pulling out his mobile, he sent a text to his batty flatmate. ‘The sink cabinet? Really, Sherlock? JW’ Shaking his head he stuffed it back in his trouser pocket before he walked back out to the main area. He would need a bigger bin to contain the entirety of what Sherlock had stuffed in various spots.

John was dragging a thick rubbish bin up to their room when his mobile vibrated in his pocket. He stopped on the landing and pulled it out. ‘Are you disturbing my experiments? SH’ John snorted, firing off a text rapidly in response.

‘If I don’t, I’m going to wake up one morning and find out that it either ate you or is serving you as an overlord. JW’ Soon John was settled into the bathroom, gloves on and the bin not far from where he was sitting. He was hesitant to touch whatever was growing in the cabinet without protection - he wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to try and cultivate Ebola or something deadly under the sink.

The bathroom went quickly. Despite the horrors John had unearthed, it was probably the cleanest part of their flat. John insisted on giving it at least a cursory scrub every other week. The second cleanest part of the flat was John’s half of the room, although Sherlock’s experiments (both psychological and physical) constantly expanded until John wasn’t sure who truly owned anything that was on his side. Sherlock’s knowledge of the concept of personal space was laughable at best.

The hardest part was next. Their kitchen was a disaster. His mobile buzzed and he jumped, having forgotten he had it on him. ‘At least leave the thumbs in the freezer. And the toes. SH’ John laughed, texting back an acknowledgment. Sherlock went quiet after that, leaving John to wonder what he was up to. Cleaning was quiet and reminded John a bit of his time in the military, where everything had to be just so. It was strangely reassuring, taking the chaos Sherlock had imposed upon his life and restoring it to normal.

John got quite a good look at the experiments when he opened the kitchen. The smell was ghastly. Thankfully he hadn’t left it for more than a day. There were too many body parts in the fridge for John to be comfortable leaving them there longer than that. The thumbs were moved to the freezer, as were the toes, per Sherlock’s request. The rest was binned.

It was early into the next morning before John had finished the kitchen. It reeked heavily of bleach and he had opened all the windows in the flat to try and air the room out. It was the weekend, and there was nothing scheduled the next day. He’d leave the living area of their flat for later in the day. With a giant yawn, John changed into pyjamas and crawled into bed. He did not dream.

When John woke up, he realized what was different. He hadn’t been woken up in the middle of the night with some odd explosion or by a screeching violin or anything else that Sherlock resorted to when bored. Checking his mobile, John noted there had been no more texts. Maybe Sherlock wasn’t a big texter? Shoving it back in his pocket so he’d notice when it went off, he walked into the kitchen. It was so clean, he marveled. At the very least he could keep it like that until Sherlock returned. Whenever that was.

Steadily ignoring the pang of longing at the thought of his obstinate roommate, he made himself a proper English breakfast. Along with the cleaning supplies he had picked up quite a bit of food. With Sherlock gone, he could eat properly and not worry about food disappearing or being used for random experiments. It was an oddly refreshing experience.

A few hours later John was doing what he would classify in anyone else as pining. He missed Sherlock. Missed the annoying git lounging about in his dressing gown being obnoxious. Groaning, John slapped a hand to his face. He was acting ridiculous. Getting dressed, he went to the rec center, this time destroying everyone in Foosball.

He felt strangely unsatisfied when he returned to the still-empty flat. The silence did nothing to stop the ceaseless thoughts running through his mind. He was not pining after Sherlock. He was not. John was not interested in a relationship with anyone, much less a man, much less Sherlock. He had not seen a woman in months. That was why he was doing what he was doing. John considered this thought, realizing that the lack of women didn’t bother him nearly as much as he had thought.

Nope. No yearning for one’s insane flatmate was allowed in John Watson’s crazy little world. John thumped down on his bed, realizing that he should probably go through Sherlock’s half of the room sooner rather than later. He would not put it past Sherlock to have something growing under the bed. Maybe an alligator. Much to John’s surprise, there was nothing but dust bunnies under Sherlock’s bed. John narrowed his eyes. That in itself was suspicious.

The duvet and other bed coverings were immaculate, which didn’t surprise John at all. After the night of his overdose Sherlock barely got near the bed, much less slept in it. Using a flashlight to double-check the nooks and crannies underneath the bed, John frowned skeptically at the bed but decided to leave it alone for now, although he did lift up the mattress to check for anything concealed underneath it.

The draws and wardrobe were next. The top of the dresser was covered in various pieces of scientific equipment, most of it neat. Sherlock had either cleaned it well - unlikely - or just never got around to using it. The man’s attention span was so short sometimes that John was surprised he had lived as long as he did without deciding that living was far too boring. John’s casual thought sent chills of fear through his veins and he shuddered. Sherlock was nearly as dangerous when he was focused on something. Then he had the focus of an elephant and wouldn’t eat, sleep, or talk. Until he wanted something, of course.

Clinically he went through Sherlock’s folded clothes - mostly pyjamas, socks, and other assorted scientific equipment. Underneath the very meticulously folded sock index that Sherlock maintained, - John found a thick manila folder with his full name on it. His eyes narrowed.

Setting it aside, John went through the rest of the chest of drawers. He found another file, this one unmarked, about two drawers down. It went right next to the thicker file. Beyond the folders, John found nothing noteworthy (by his Sherlock-induced standards) in the drawers. He was certain that the majority of normal people would be quite unsettled by the contents of Sherlock’s drawers.

Resisting the lure of the manila folders, John grabbed them and sat them on his neatly-made bed– before turning back to his chore. It was one of the habits he had retained from his time in the military. Sherlock scorned it, of course. The list of things Sherlock didn’t view with disdain was a far smaller list. He went back and spent another few hours cleaning the floors and the table. If he was going to clean, he would go all out. Finally John was finished. He stood in front of his bed, looking with extremely satisfaction at the now mostly impeccable flat.

Making himself a cup of tea, he took it over to the bed with him and perched in front of the files. He opened the one with his name first, carefully balancing the warm cup of tea in the crook between his legs. The mug was insulated and didn’t burn him. It was a rather thick file, he noticed immediately. Lots of paper bound together – at least an inch’s worth.

John’s stomach felt like it had dropped out from inside him and the sensation only got worse as he continued to read. It was everything about him - from what school he attended to all of his marks, his A-levels, his service records, his military training, his girlfriends, his one-night stands, what bars he visited and the frequency. It was every fact about John Hamish Watson that apparently had ever been recorded. John just stared at the information. Had Sherlock read it? Why did he have the information? After meeting Mycroft he wasn’t surprised that there’d been a background check done - not that they would have found anything - but he had not expected this level of detail.

There was no way that Mycroft occupied a “minor position”, especially since John suspected that he was the one who had furnished Sherlock with the information. Had Sherlock left it where John could find it on purpose? Or did he never think John would go through his belongings? That was unlikely, especially after the search for drugs he had done. Sitting the stack of papers on top of its folder, he pulled the second one towards him. This one was unmarked. He stared at it, apprehensive. It was far thinner than the file with his information, and for some reason that made John apprehensive.

Opening it slowly, he peered inside. There was no more than half a dozen photos in it, all printed on high quality, glossy photo paper. He pulled them out and spread them in front of him. His eyes widened in horror. The photos were of Sherlock. Sherlock and another man in three of them, Sherlock and a group of men in two more. Sherlock by himself in the last. In each of them Sherlock was naked and bound in a variety of positions. The men were - John couldn’t even begin to think about what they were doing. They were torturing him - in a few they were actively raping him.

John stared blankly at the photos. What were these? Where were they from? Who were the men in the picture? His mind was tripping over itself in an effort to process the many questions and thoughts moving through his brain. Was this - was this who had abused him? Was it photos from clientele he’d had before? Firmly pushing away the nausea, he took a closer look at the pictures. This was his doctor’s brain. It noted the bleeding stripes decorating Sherlock’s body, the way the ropes dug into his skin. The blank look on Sherlock’s face as if his mind had decided to no longer be a part of the proceedings. He doubted it was consensual.

Mutely he gathered the photos back up in the same order they had been pulled out in, inserting them back in the folder. John laid back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. What was he going to say to Sherlock when he got back? If he got back, he amended. He didn’t know where Sherlock was or what he was doing and the way he had said good bye…John wasn’t sure what to think. How to feel. So he did the sensible thing. He walked over to Sherlock’s things and replaced the folders. Making another cup to tea to replace the mug that had cooled while he had cleaned and read, John grabbed yet another book from Sherlock’s vast collection. He sat and read.

The next morning John went and contacted Mycroft. The man had developed a bad habit of leaving business cards in John’s belongings, for his number never seemed to remain in John’s phone for longer than 24 hours. Contacting Mycroft was useless, however. He was, per his secretary, ‘Unavailable for approximately the next three days - trivial matters, of course’. Of bloody course. It made sense that wherever Sherlock was, Mycroft was there with him.

John sighed. Apparently the questions about his background check (or whatever they wanted to call it) were going to remain unanswered. The photo mystery, however, could wait until Sherlock returned, if ever. John did not feel that he had the rights to pry that far into Sherlock’s life. His phone vibrated and John jumped.

‘Bored. SH’ John grinned at his phone. Sherlock must really have nothing else to do if he was texting John this early. Then again, John mused, he had no idea if Sherlock was even in the same time zone. “Breakfast time,” John said to no one. It helped, a little bit.

‘Come home, then. JW’ he texted back with a smirk. It was then that he realized what he had said and cringed. Sentiment, to Sherlock Holmes? The nerve. The other implication made John thoughtful. It was the first time he had consciously thought of Asylum as home. He shook his head, getting up and walking to the kitchen. It was luxurious, having the freedom to cook whatever he wanted without worrying about finding experiments in the fridge.

‘If it was that simple. SH’ John spent a long minute looking at his mobile, absorbing the implications of Sherlock’s words. Apparently he had not been mortally offended by John’s sentiment. It was true, however, John mused, throwing together a simple breakfast as he steeped his tea. Asylum was as much of a home to Sherlock as it was to him. It was a place for those who were too broken to heal, a refuge. He had never appreciated that more.

Sherlock. Just the name of his roommate and the emptiness in his flat made him lonely. It wasn’t proper to miss someone like that. Well, possibly a little. Sherlock had been a constant in John’s life after Angelie, and he was someone whom John could tentatively claim as a friend. He was pleased when the name of his ex-girlfriend no longer sent sparks of fear shooting down his spine. While he felt some trepidation, he no longer was frightened. Beyond the scars, the marks and bruises were healed and gone. No physical evidence remained of the emotional trauma he had went through.

It was strange, months of trauma reduced to nothing visible beyond a handful of scars that could have been caused by anything. The emotional scars, however, would linger longer. At the very least he would have to be cautious with his choice of flats and flatmates for quite some time. It was strange, he mused, thinking about leaving Asylum. It felt surreal, like it was far away, a reality that would never apply to him – nor to Sherlock.

Everything led back to Sherlock. That meant something, but John didn’t know what. John wasn’t gay - was he? He shook his head. He wasn’t. Not that it would have bothered him if he was. Relationships were forbidden between inhabitants due to the nature of those often living in Asylum. John wasn’t certain if he was ready for a relationship regardless, no matter who it was with. Gender no longer mattered nearly as much when compared to personality and the person’s ability to be kind to him.

Sherlock was kind, in a way. If one squinted and twisted the idea around and attempted to apply it to him with one eye closed. Sherlock often meant what he said and said what he meant, and neither quality was considered good by most people. There was his history, too - the mess that had brought him to Asylum. It was the proximity, John decided. That was what was making him crazy enough to consider Sherlock as a potential partner.

He couldn’t even think of how Sherlock would respond if John even mentioned it to him. With derision and likely a sneer. He might even attempt to move out. Besides, John excused, Sherlock was not interested in anyone. And John was most definitely not interested in Sherlock. Maybe if he wrote it on a post-it note and stuck it on his forehead he’d remember it.

Was he attracted to Sherlock Holmes? He was a great-looking bloke, at least until he opened his mouth. John grinned, imagining how many people Sherlock had driven off just by being himself. He couldn’t deny that he was relatively fond of the man, experiments and all. Sherlock was kind of a group package - if you took the man, you took all of his baggage, both literal and figurative.

Deciding he was at the limit of his emotional contemplation for the day (and possibly the week) John turned back to his book. He would read for a while and then go down to the rec center. There were games and distractions and things to keep John from thinking about Sherlock. All too soon the curly-haired man would be back and John would be busy wishing him gone again. The thought made him grin and he forced his attention back to the book. Putting it aside after just a few minutes, John strode down the stairs. It was too difficult to be in the too-silent flat.

Seven long days passed before John’s phone vibrated with a text that let him know that Sherlock was on his way home. John was elated and stubbornly trying to pretend that he wasn’t. He looked wistfully at the relatively clean flat, knowing it would all go to hell as soon as Sherlock returned. It was exactly the way it had been when the man had left, minus all the experiments thrown haphazardly about. John snorted at how vastly different that meant the room looked.

There was noise on the staircase and John looked up expectantly. Sherlock stumbled in, assisted by his brother. John was horrified to see bandages wrapped around Sherlock’s head and some on his left calf and lower right arm. He was limping and unable to put weight on his left leg. “What happened?” John asked immediately, shifting pillows on the couch to make room.

“Got shot,” Sherlock muttered darkly. He couldn’t curl up so he laid there, staring at the ceiling.

“My brother was, unfortunately, in the pathway of some bullets,” Mycroft clarified. “A few of them happened to graze him.”

“He’ll be alright?” John asked, looking Sherlock over, his gaze clinical and assessing. At least one cracked or broken rib, a badly sprained ankle, patches crisscrossing on his arm and leg, and who knew what the clothes were hiding.

Mycroft hummed noncommittally. He passed John a folder he hadn’t noticed before and John eyed it warily. His recent experience with folders had been a bit not good, and he was wary to open it. “The doctor’s recommendations for his care - as you will be assuming it, won’t you?” Although it was phrased as a question, John knew it was nothing of the sort. Immediately opening the packet, John read through the chart quietly. Part of him was impressed that Sherlock was still standing and the other half of him was horrified.

“I don’t have any of the supplies,” John pointed out, looking up at Mycroft expectantly. The taller Holmes brother was looking around the flat, clearly amused or entertained by its state of cleanliness. “Yes, I’m aware it won’t stay like this for long,” he muttered, ignoring the quirk of the elder Holmes’ lips. A card was placed on top of the chart John had in his hands. It was simple, embossed, with a name and a phone number on it.

“This is my card,” Mycroft said, ignoring John’s exasperated sigh. “My PA will answer. Ask her for anything you need and she will get it for you.”

“At a price, I suppose?” John quipped sarcastically, stuffing the card into his pocket. He didn’t need it - a quick glance confirmed that it was the number that he had stored in his phone. Looking up, he saw that Mycroft was frowning at him.

“Despite what you think, Dr. Watson, I do care for my younger brother,” Mycroft said pointedly, ignoring the disparaging snort from Sherlock on the couch. “Anything you need for his care - including food, if you can get him to eat - will be free of charge.”

“Go away, Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered. “John is perfectly capable of taking care of me. He’s not like the other idiots you work with.” John wondered whether he should be insulted or complimented. With Sherlock, you took what you could get. That was practically a glowing review, so John allowed himself to preen just a little.

“Do call if you need anything, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft turned and walked out the door, closing it behind him. John stood where he was for a few moments before he looked back down, quickly absorbed in the notes. They weren’t Sherlock’s complete medical records, but they covered all of the care he had received the past few days. Overall, Sherlock had a concussion, at least two cracked ribs, six knife wounds (including a shallow stab wound on his abdomen), and had been grazed by at least three separate bullets. ‘Got hit by a few bullets,’ John thought sarcastically. Yes, that covered it.

The door opened again and Mycroft walked in, a dark scowl on his face. John stared at him, wondering what had brought him back so fast. “Sherlock,” the elder Holmes said in a low, threatening tone.

An umbrella appeared, held easily by Sherlock’s strong fingers. “Lose something, Mycroft?”

“Someday you need to stop that vulgar habit of stealing whatever of mine you can get your hands on,” Mycroft snapped, snatching the umbrella out of Sherlock’s grasp. Sherlock didn’t respond, apparently content to lay on the sofa and stare smugly at the ceiling

“Definitely not today,” Sherlock muttered, just loud enough for John to hear. Mycroft shot a glare at his younger brother, likely able to discern what he was saying by his body posture or something equally ridiculous. Or maybe Mycroft could read minds. John really hoped that wasn’t the case.

“Good day, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft’s voice was forced and his body tense as he pivoted around and walked out the door, closing it with a bit more force than was necessary. There was silence for a few moments before John couldn’t resist it and broke out laughing.

“That was brilliant,” he said between gasps for air. “His expression.” Sherlock merely smirked at the ceiling. John looked at him, feeling suddenly a bit guilty. “Ah, right. Your ribs.” John looked at Sherlock, just a bit uncomfortable. “I’m going to need to look under the bandages to see what supplies I need.”

“You have the paperwork.” Sherlock dismissed John with a wave of his hand and the ever-meticulous doctor sighed.

“The paperwork is good and all, Sherlock, but it’s not the same as seeing it. Strip down to your pants, please.” John’s voice was the firm tone he used in the military, the one that brooked no arguments. Sherlock stared at him with a ‘you stupid peasant’ look. It was a look that John received when Sherlock was exasperated, although he often received its cousin, the ‘you are marginally less stupid than a rock’.. John could have slapped himself halfway across the head for being so foolish. He had forgotten Sherlock’s ribs twice now. And Mycroft felt comfortable putting him in charge? Setting aside the paper, John walked over to Sherlock and stared at him, wondering how best to do this. “Where are the bandages?”

“Two on my left calf, two on my chest, and two on my abdomen. My head was grazed by a bullet, and two more stab wounds on the arm. A bullet also grazed my hip. Leg is a knife wound and another bullet. Assorted cuts and bruises otherwise, but nothing else is severe. Stitches underneath all the bandages,” Sherlock recited mechanically to the ceiling, fingers moving cautiously to point out each patch of gauze.

Gingerly John helped Sherlock stand, his hands as gentle as possible, encouraging, comforting. He heard the hiss as Sherlock felt his ribs sting as he moved and he rubbed slight circles on Sherlock’s shoulders in apology. “Can you undo your trousers?”

“I am not a child,” Sherlock muttered petulantly, far from the mechanical way he had been talking moments earlier.

“No, but you do have cracked ribs, and that will make any movement with your arms difficult for the next couple weeks,” John answered. He watched as Sherlock undid the button and zipper and then gently tugged his trousers off, careful to avoid bumping any of the injuries or bruises that dotted Sherlock’s legs. Gently he helped Sherlock step out of his clothes, settling them off to the side. His shirt was next, and John’s fingers were in heaven as he undid the buttons. He hoped devoutly that Sherlock wasn’t noticing his odd reaction. John winced in sympathy as the extent of Sherlock’s bruises and wounds were revealed. The tension in Sherlock’s body had John on edge.

“I’m going to start with the wounds on your chest, alright?” John murmured, his voice the reassuring tone he used with patients. Sherlock didn’t say anything, but the doctor saw a faint nod he took as assent. “Anything on your back?”

“Nothing but bruises,” Sherlock answered quietly. Maintaining his gentle hold, John shifted slightly so that he could examine the bruised expanse of Sherlock’s back. True to his word, there was nothing but bruises, not even a hint of broken skin. The back of Sherlock’s thighs and calves were unmarred except for one small scrape that John was not worried about. Distractedly John’s eyes slid over Sherlock’s arse, covered by the thin veneer of his pants. “You’re staring,” Sherlock pointed out, his gaze still firmly fixated on the wall in front of him. John mentally kicked himself several times - this wasn’t anyone he was treating, this was Sherlock bloody Holmes and he’d know if John’s mind wandered.

“Apologies,” he said finally. “Let’s get you laid down. Think you’ll be comfortable enough to sleep on the sofa?” The look Sherlock sent his direction was truly impressive and John sighed. “Alright, then.” Gingerly he sat Sherlock down, maneuvering him carefully so that he was on his back on the sofa. Glancing around the room, John briefly contemplated getting a blanket or sheet to cover his patient and maintain his dignity but decided against it. Sherlock would probably laugh at the idea.

The smooth expanse of Sherlock’s chest was interrupted by a large patch - and John was chilled to see it was right above his heart. There was another clump of gauze lower on his abdomen, not far underneath his pectorals. There were bindings on Sherlock’s ribs, protecting them from further damage. John could see about three quarters of a third patch on Sherlock’s hip. Carefully peeling up the smallest edge of medical tape on the largest patch, the doctor lifted up the gauze and clinically examined the wound underneath. This must be the shallow stab wound that Mycroft had mentioned. It looked to be about an inch deep, the edges starting to granulate over as the injury began to heal.

Next was the patch on his abdomen. It was shallow but long, the pathway of a bullet etching itself into Sherlock’s flesh. The wound on Sherlock’s hip looked similar but smaller, the black stitches stark against the pale skin. “It didn’t nick the bone?” John inquired absentmindedly, half question, half answer.

“No,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes closed under John’s ministrations.

“Must’ve been a close thing, as bony as you are.” John couldn’t help the brief caress his thumb gave Sherlock’s hip, seemingly captivated by the bony protuberance. Shaking his head back to what he should be doing, he carefully settled the gauze patches back over what they were protecting. Part of him was worried about the pallor of Sherlock’s skin – how much of the white was natural and how much was from blood loss? He seemed even paler than normal.

He turned his attention to the tape binding Sherlock’s ribs. “I’m going to unbind your ribs, okay?”

This caught Sherlock’s attention, his eyes opening and focusing intently on John’s face. “Why?”

“It increases the risk of pneumonia due to an inability to breathe deeply,” John answered, far more comfortable in the depths of his medical knowledge. It helped block out the small part of his mind that could not stop staring at Sherlock’s skin, patterned with bruises although it was. “I know breathing hurts, but it’s important to breathe as deeply as you can at least once an hour. Otherwise your lungs could collapse.” There was an odd look in Sherlock’s eyes and John narrowed his in response. “You already knew that, didn’t you?”

“You’re comforted by your medical knowledge,” the man said in a seemingly bored voice. John blinked, but could not deny that it was true. Shrugging his response, he very gently removed the binding from Sherlock’s ribs, wincing in sympathy as Sherlock’s breath came out in a long hiss.

“I think one of them might be broken.” Making a note to examine them closer later, he moved on.

“It’s possible.” Sherlock had focused his eyes on the ceiling. “That doesn’t change anything.”

“No, it doesn’t,” John agreed absentmindedly. He gently grasped Sherlock’s hand and twisted it so that he could see his forearm. “Do you have any pain medicine?”

John would have had to be blind and stupid to miss the tension that was sent thrumming through Sherlock’s body. The man was suddenly coiled up like he was about to snap. Obviously the wrong question, then. “No.”

“I’ll add that to the list, then,” John mused, already cataloging it in his head.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?” Looking at Sherlock’s face, the doctor attempted to figure out what he had gotten wrong, what had set his flatmate off. “I’m not talking about anything stronger than paracetamol or anything else over the counter, Sherlock.”

“I knew that,” Sherlock snapped, but to John’s ears he sounded the slightest bit relieved. The tension had seeped back out of his bones - which was good, since John doubted it had made the cracked ribs feel any better.

Methodologically John continued his examination of Sherlock’s arms and leg, noting the various objects he would need to ask of Mycroft and his assistant. It wasn’t a long list (whoever had taken care of Sherlock was good), but with several open wounds, infection was a serious consideration. He finished examining the bandaged injuries and checked over the rest of Sherlock, including his head. Washing the blood out of Sherlock’s hair without hurting him was going to be a difficult task.

The rest of the scratches were minor, and John figured he could easily treat them with an antiseptic and time. “We should have sex.” Sherlock’s voice was rough and his gaze had not wavered from the ceiling. John froze where he was, tilted so that he could get a closer look at the scratch on Sherlock’s head.

“Pardon?” he asked, not sure he’d heard correctly. He hoped he hadn’t. Or he had. He wasn’t really sure. His brain was distracted, in the process of short-circuiting.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Sherlock turned his head to look at John. His eyes were - icy, was the best word John to could come up with. Guarded. There was that sharp attention, and then - just a wall. 

“Did they give you pain medication?” John inquired. It made sense.

“Of course not. Addict, remember?” Sherlock snorted contemptuously, his gaze returning to the ceiling. “I know you want it. You took quite a bit of time examining my back, lingering on my arse. Your pupils dilated. Your heart rate’s accelerated. You’re half-hard in those trousers of yours.” John steadily ignored him. He didn’t know what to say. It was true, what he said - he was attracted to Sherlock. Although John wasn’t exactly fine with it, he could ignore it and compartmentalize with the best of them - a useful army trait, it was.

John’s hand was remarkably steady as he wrote down a few things he knew already that he’d need for Sherlock’s wounds. Antiseptic, cotton balls, more gauze. He ignored his patient in front of him, figuring the best thing to do was to wait Sherlock out. Hopefully he’d drop the loony idea. Wanting another look at the gash on his abdomen (should he stitch it or steri-strip it?), he lifted up a corner of the medical tape. He froze when Sherlock’s long, nimble fingers surrounded his wrist. “What?” John asked, hoping he sounded nonchalant.

“Why aren’t you talking to me?” Sherlock’s voice was rough, laced with something John didn’t recognize, something convoluted and dark and frightened.

“I just need a last look at this, and then I’m done. I need to get that list to Mycroft.” John’s voice was level, the tone one he used to convey that he was a doctor and knew what he was doing.

“You can just fuck me, you know.” Sherlock’s gaze had not wavered from the ceiling. John found it unnerving. Sherlock could say such things so casually, but he couldn’t make eye contact.

“Sherlock, you’ve been stabbed, hit by bullets, and you have cracked ribs. That’s a ridiculous notion - if I was interested.” John paused, and then realized he should add something to that. “And I’m not.”

Sherlock shrugged and then hissed in pain at the motion. “I’ve been fucked worse. This is nothing.”

John was horrified and did his best to not let it show up on his face, surprised both by the implication and Sherlock’s blunt language. Standing up, he grabbed his mobile. “I’ll be right back.” He walked out of the flat, his phone held to his ear as he dialed Mycroft’s number. It was a matter of seconds before it connected to Mycroft’s PA. He read off the list and was assured it would be delivered in less than a half hour. The list had consisted of medical basics and some food, since John had not bothered to do another food run once he knew Sherlock was coming back. If he was very lucky he would be able to get Sherlock to eat.

While he was outside he took the opportunity to call Mike. He was not surprised to find out that Mike already knew that Sherlock had returned injured, and John was granted at least three days off to care for his flatmate. While initially John had not minded the idea, with the erratic way Sherlock had been acting, being stuck alone with him in their room was not going to be the best use of a few days.

He wanted another look at Sherlock’s ribs, to double-check that one wasn’t broken. He was in charge of Sherlock’s plan of care and it would change slightly based on John’s diagnosis. Walking back into the flat, he put on his best doctor persona and went back over to his patient. Sherlock was still lying on the sofa, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Wishing he had a stethoscope to assess the man’s lungs, John leaned down slightly, gently palpitating Sherlock’s chest.

His intense focus on what he was doing was his downfall. A hand wrapped itself around his neck and brought him down for a crushing kiss. Sherlock was a good kisser, a distracted part of John noticed. Sherlock licked his way into John’s mouth, his lips parting slightly out of surprise. He nibbled on John’s bottom lip briefly before he thrust his way into the hot cavern of the doctor’s mouth. Sherlock was fucking his mouth with his tongue – there was no other way to describe what Sherlock was doing. John moaned, unable to control himself. He felt himself growing hard in his jeans.

Throwing himself out of the kiss, he nearly tipped over in an attempt to stabilize himself by using something other than his patient. He stumbled towards the kitchen, finally bracing his hands on the back of one of the chairs. Sherlock had grabbed him. He’d kissed him. Sherlock. Oh god. So not good. “Sherlock, you can’t do that,” he groaned, a hand on his forehead. His mind was reeling.

“You enjoyed it.” Sherlock’s voice was flat, emotionless. He was staring at the ceiling again, John would bet anything. Oh god, what had he gotten himself into?

“I need to go meet Anthea,” John said quietly. He was chickening out and he knew it. John paused in the doorway as he prepared to go downstairs. “I’m not going to sleep with you.” Sherlock’s normally gorgeous lips turned ugly when he sneered, yet he was still beautiful. The epitome of a fallen angel.

“Why not?” Sherlock huffed, looking offended. John raised an eyebrow.

“I thought you didn’t care,” John answered. The curly-haired man shrugged nonchalantly, his grimace at the pain less than it had been the first few times he had stressed his ribs. “Stay here.” John padded down the steps and met Anthea downstairs. Thankfully most of what he had needed could fit in just a couple bags, and the trip upstairs was easier than he had anticipated.

Sherlock was still on the couch, much to John’s relief, although he was silent and his eyes were closed His fingers were steepled under his chin. “Why.”

“Why what?” John asked automatically, walking into the kitchen and setting the bags on the mostly-unoccupied table. With Sherlock injured he had been unable to wreck the clean state of the flat. Which was good, since it lowered his chance of infection. He began putting away the food items, leaving the medical supplies stacked on the couch.

“Don’t repeat yourself. You sound like an imbecile,” Sherlock snapped. “Why won’t you have sex with me? You’re obviously attracted to me. I’ve had worse; it’s not like you’re ghastly.”

“Thanks,” John muttered dryly. Sherlock ignored him.

“You reacted when I kissed you, and I could feel your erection, so you want to have sex with me. You’re just saying no, denying yourself what you want. Likely a social construction of sorts. Perhaps as a doctor you’re worried about my injuries,” Sherlock mused to himself. John continued putting away the groceries, not paying Sherlock any attention. He felt far saner that way. “Which is ridiculous. These are mere scratches.”

John muttered under his breath without thinking. “I know. I’ve seen the pictures.” He froze, horrified at his lack of control, and then realized he could not take the words back. Stoically he finished the groceries and moved onto the medical supplies. The stethoscope was sat on the table, a reminder to finish his assessment. The painkillers were next, then the gauze, medical tape, and antiseptic in a small group. He had taken a risk saying that, and he knew it. Sherlock hadn’t had time to officially come home and likely had no idea that John had been going through his belongings. Then again, Sherlock could have blatantly left the files where they were and assumed that John had found them.

Several long minutes passed in an uncomfortable silence. John finished sorting the medical supplies and decided to do the next natural thing – start a cup of tea. Flicking on the kettle, he grabbed a pair of mugs and a couple of tea bags. Sherlock being silent wasn’t unusual, but silence after what John had said, however, was worrisome. John pivoted around while he waited, nearly afraid of what he would see.

Sherlock had fallen asleep. The tenseness of his frame indicated that he had likely heard what John had said, and his mouth was half-open, as if he had intended to respond. Before he could formulate a response his body must have caught up with the turn of events and given up on him. John gathered a blanket up from the side of the room and laid it over Sherlock’s fragile body. He had not had a chance to get him back into pyjamas, for he had wanted to evaluate the abdominal wound again, but he was not about to disturb his patient when he was sleeping so soundly. John could not help but smile as Sherlock shifted slightly in his sleep, the tension seeping out of his body. There was something oddly tender between the two, a crackling electricity that sent a thrum through John’s bones. Leaning down John carefully tucked the wayward curls dotting Sherlock’s forehead back into the muss of his hair, a slight smile on his face. They could talk later.

Going back to the kitchen, John re-sorted his supplies. The bandages would be changed in the morning, and it was likely that he was going to stitch the wound in the morning. The syringes of lidocaine went with the sutures, although the stethoscope was still at the front of the line. He sighed once he finished, his hands nearly out of things to do. The kettle had long gone off but it beeped insistently, a reminder. Making just one mug of tea, John sipped it gratefully, his mind whirling over the events of the day. What was he going to do with Sherlock? If he tried to grab him again, John would have to lay down the line. For one, it was against the rules. For two, John did not do casual sex, not now, and that was most definitely what Sherlock was proposing. Then again, his mind tempted, Sherlock had proven to be the exception to nearly every rule John had ever created.

Finishing his tea, he tried to figure out what to do next. It was nearing curfew so he couldn’t leave their flat. With a grumble John got up and grabbed his pyjamas, stalking to the bathroom and flipping on the shower. Hopefully that would relax him enough to go to sleep. Stripping and stepping into the shower, he let his head loll back in pleasure as the heated water hit his back. Asylum wasn’t stingy with their water bills, so he enjoyed getting the water as hot as possible. He lathered his hair up with shampoo, washing it out as soon as he was finished. Soaping up his hands, he washed his body, lingering as he moved over his pelvic region. His cock was still half-hard; he had not been able to fully suppress his erection as he tended to the mostly-naked Sherlock.

His penis thickened in his hand, reacting to the slow, languid strokes. He shoved the thoughts of his mostly nude flatmate out of his mind, forcibly replacing them with someone else, something else. His attempts failed rapidly, his mind filled with images of Sherlock’s lanky body, naked underneath his, lifting himself so he was closer to the doctor. John’s breath stuttered as he pushed the foreskin over the glans, his back arching in response to the heat coiling in his stomach. He increased his pace, the strokes rougher, the ring around his cock tighter. His mind was roiling, filled with images of pale alabaster skin, cupid-bow lips, intense blue eyes. A shudder raced through his body at the thought of Sherlock on his knees, his mouth around John’s cock, taking him all the way down.

John gasped Sherlock’s name as he came, stroking himself gently through the shudders of his orgasm. John stood under the hot water with his hands flat on the wall, water streaming down the flat plane of his back, wondering what in the hell he had gotten himself into and what he was going to do next. Sherlock was going to make his life a living hell, and John was going to let him. He was bloody screwed. Finally stepping out from underneath the spray, he turned off the shower and dried and dressed as quietly as he could, comforted by the soft cotton against his slightly clammy skin. He padded to his bed and slipped under the covers. Within moments he was asleep.

John was used to opening his eyes and seeing the pitch black that proceeded a nightmare. It was comforting in a sick, twisted way that John would never be able to explain to anyone else. Not that he particularly desired to try. Moments later he was standing, his arms casually resting on a railing at least fifteen feet above a large, concrete expanse of floor. Possibly a warehouse, John’s consciousness informed him.

He focused further on what was in front of him, and his eyes narrowed. Sherlock was tied to a chair, his hands zip-tied to the arms of the chair, his ankles to the legs. Angelie was circling him, a knife in her hands. John knew he was dreaming, as he felt no fear when he noted that the knife in her hand was her favorite. It had been turned on him on more than a few occasions. It was strange, watching his flatmate sit there, his crazed ex-girlfriend teasing Sherlock’s flesh with the tip of the knife.

“So you like this one, John?” Her voice was harsh, grating, and the point of the knife slid teasingly down Sherlock’s forearm. John watched as Sherlock’s muscles rippled unconsciously from the contact, uselessly fighting the restraints. She dug just a little bit harder and the flesh parted underneath the cool metal, blood flowing down Sherlock’s skin as it began to seep from the long and shallow cut. Tension was starting to coil in John’s stomach, rapidly growing unbearable as he attempted to control himself.

“Leave him alone,” John snapped. He wasn’t sure where he found the courage. The cool, detached version of John seemed to have taken a back seat, having left its angry cousin in the driver’s seat. A mocking smile slid across the woman’s lips. Carefully she did a matching wound on Sherlock’s other forearm, licking her lips as the blood rolled down the pale skin. She maintained eye contact with John as she leaned down and licked at the cut, tasting his flatmate’s blood.

Angelie did not stop. Some cuts across Sherlock’s abdomen were shallow, some were deeper. Sherlock was gagged now, soft whimpers and moans escaping as he fought against the ties that bound him. The blood was pooling on the floor now, and John could see Sherlock’s skin growing paler as time passed by. John couldn’t move. He couldn’t reach Sherlock. All he knew that was he was watching Sherlock die, bit by bit, and it was his fault. He watched numbly as she sliced accurately down Sherlock’s neck and blurt spurting as Sherlock jerked. The jugular. He was going to be dead in mere moments, and John could do nothing about it. He was too cowardly to even watch. Accepting defeat, John closed his eyes. The darkness surrounded him.

When he opened them, he had switched positions. He was the one tied to the chair, the zip ties biting cruelly into his wrists and ankles. Although he had mostly remained toned from his tour in Afgahnistan, his muscles were useless against the strength of the flimsy-looking ties. A quick inventory of his body reassured him that he was currently whole.

A noise to the left drew his attention and he looked at the lithe form coming out of the shadows. A sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach when he recognized the man sauntering in his direction. Sherlock. Sherlock was the one standing there, grinning sadistically, the knife - that knife, Angelie’s knife - held casually in his hands. Oh god. John could feel his body start to tremble.

“Really, John?” Sherlock’s drawl was icy, darkly sarcastic. His pale eyes focused on John’s face, his expression baleful and dangerously amused. John stared blankly back. What was Sherlock talking about? Why did Sherlock have a knife? It was a dream, John reminded himself. A dream. “Sentiment. I should have expected it from someone as weak as you.” His voice was practically a purr. The knife danced in his hands, settling finally against John’s chest, the tip resting directly on his heart.

John hissed in pain as the knife punctured skin and trailed downwards, blood trailing down the thin, red line to pool in John’s lap. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growled, his teeth grinding together. This was not reality, he reminded himself firmly. It was not actually happening. He hissed again when the knife dug in again, this time lower in his abdomen, horizontal. John’s consciousness pointed out that Sherlock was recreating the scars that decorated John’s body in reality, both from the military and from Angelie.

“You.” Sherlock laughed, a thin, cruel sound that set the hair on John’s neck on edge and sent tendrils of fear creeping down his spine. “You love me.” The knife pierced John’s bad shoulder, digging into the scar tissue and creating a jagged line as the knife continued down onto John’s upper arm.. The warm blood slid down his arm, dripping from his fingers, the red liquid pooling on the floor. There was no evidence of what he had witnessed earlier, of the earlier reality in which it had been Sherlock being tortured.

It was not long before John’s head grew dizzy. He was covered in more knife wounds than he could count, his blood seeping through more than a dozen punctures to his skin. Blood loss had set in, for he had barely felt the last six marks. All Sherlock would have to do is go for his arteries. It wouldn’t take long, after that.

“Yes,” John answered honestly. This was a dream. He could say whatever he wanted in dreams, couldn’t he?

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock said flatly. The look in his eyes was pure malice, and now the knife trailed down John’s thigh. John had gone from woozy to lightheaded, soft grey lights invading his vision.

“Yes,” John confirmed drowsily. His eyes were struggling to stay open. He smiled slightly. “Yes. Yes, I am.” Closing his eyes, he surrendered to his fate as he felt the knife cut sharply through his neck.

John opened his eyes to see the familiar ceiling of their flat. His heart was racing so fast, nausea making his stomach do somersaults. Struggling to his feet, he crashed his way towards the bathroom, not caring what noise he made. He shoved open the bathroom door and stumbled inside, collapsing in a heap in front of the toilet as started to vomit. His stomach emptied its contents into the porcelain container, leaving him attempting to draw in breaths as he tried to slow his breathing and stop the adrenaline.

John’s head spun. What the hell had his mind done? The images from the dream flashed through his mind and his stomach gave another sickening lurch and he dry-heaved. A moan escaped his mouth as he slumped further into the toilet bowl. It was disgusting. Everything was disgusting.

The message his mind had given him, however, was clear.

He had to stay the fuck away from Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to meet a new friend next chapter. :D I'm going to go cackle madly in a corner now.


	6. And I Cannot Explain to You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...here's where the fun really starts, my lovelies. Due to things, there's been an extra chapter added. Also, this chapter is entirely in Sherlock's point of view! The last two chapters will also switch between Sherlock and John's POV due to the events contained in them.
> 
> Feel free to find me at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com) for ramblings/occasional previews/progress reports/the like.
> 
> Also...I just want to give a shout-out to my awesome beta/cheerleader/support person [Dreig](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreig) for all of her help with ALS in general but especially with these next three chapters.

Sherlock opened his eyes and then grimaced at the crusty feeling. He had been sleeping for quite some time, then. It was a strange sensation, for he did not remember falling asleep in the first place. John. His eyes widened slightly as he remembered what they had been discussing. The photos. Instantly Sherlock had known what the photos must have been of. Although he had attempted to delete the past year of his life, some memories staunchly refused to be deleted. Being trapped, half-drugged and coherent, and hearing the whirrs and clicks of the cameras were one of the things that steadily refused to disappear.

The implications of the photos troubled Sherlock more than anything, for he was not the one that had put them in his wardrobe for John to find. It was likely they had been smuggled into his flat not long after he had left with Mycroft. Sherlock was meticulous about his draws and nothing had been disturbed prior to his leaving. Not that this was useful information, as Sherlock was currently unable to leave the sofa due to the pain in his chest. This was not the first time he had suffered cracked ribs; the worst of the pain would subside in a week or so and Sherlock would be mobile once again.

John. His mind flickered back to the army doctor and he struggled to lift himself off of the furniture enough to look around. It was dark, still late, and John was asleep in his bed, breathing the deep breaths of someone in REM sleep. So he had been out for quite some time, then. He scowled at the audaciousness of his transport, needing that much rest. It was a few puny injuries. He had suffered far worse at his tormentor's hands.

Despite his best attempts, the pain was starting to set in. Sherlock knew that over the counter medication he would be offered was not going to be enough to completely cover the pain. It would barely take the edge off. Sherlock was both thankful and irritated by the thought. Shaking his head slightly, he turned his mind back to the problem at hand. John, and his absurd reaction to Sherlock's proposal. It had been considerate of Sherlock, really, to offer John what he wanted.

He put his palms together underneath his chin, fingers tapping together as he thought through his problem. John's attraction had been blatantly obvious days after he moved into Sherlock's flat, yet he had failed to act on it. It was amusing, practically endearing in a way. None of Sherlock's prior roommates had lasted that long. Most became flustered and either fucked him or left; he was not particularly picky. Sex was what everyone wanted eventually, one way or another. Sherlock had been confident that John would prove to be no different.

Yet John had refused. Had said no. He had actually seemed concerned over Sherlock's well-being. It was probably the injuries - would an improvement in Sherlock's health provoke the desired reaction? Part of Sherlock was curious about what sex would be like with the doctor. He was certain that John would be a kind and considerate lover, which would be far above his latest partners. They had paid well, but had left welts behind that Sherlock had no desire to repeat. Such large bruises were far too difficult to explain to his nosy brother, much less to Asylum's medical staff. He had not had any clients since three days before John entered his life. It was lucky, for that meant he was relatively unharmed the night he overdosed.

John's presence allowed Sherlock's mind to continue lingering on that night. The night he had taken the needle, drawn the potent drugs up into the single syringe, and sent himself spiraling downwards with an injection. The first night that John had proven himself to be different from the others. He shifted slightly on the sofa and bit back a moan as the pressure on the gauze tugged on some of his stitches. There was a rustle of fabric behind him and he stifled a groan. He had woken John up. A sharp half-scream behind him indicated that might not have been the case - John seemed to be having one of his more intense nightmares, something Sherlock had not seen in several weeks.

Somehow he felt that saying something would not help. He listened as John got up and rushed to the bathroom, violently throwing up his stomach contents. John continued dry-heaving for a few minutes, his gasping for breath interspersed with choking sobs that made Sherlock feel uncomfortable (although he was not certain why). Human sentiment, perhaps. "John?" he said finally, his voice shaking far more than he would like. The pain was settling in near his bones, and while he could deal with it, it would rapidly escalate beyond tolerable limits. "Paracetamol, please." John was distressed. Offering him a distraction, such as a patient to care for, would be beneficial to his state of mind.

Shakily the blonde-haired man emerged from the bathroom, giving Sherlock a glimpse of his face. It was - Sherlock stared at him, torn between fascination and fear. There was something wild about his expression, something afraid and violent and torn. It was a myriad of emotions and Sherlock had no idea how to catalog them. Sentiment really was not his strong point. "Yeah," John said finally. "You must be really hurting if you asked nicely."

Sherlock said nothing, preferring to study his flatmate in peace. John kept glancing in his direction and seemed apprehensive. So he had been in the nightmare, then, and it had been something to change his perception of Sherlock. Why did the thought that something could have happened to make John think negatively of him, make him feel nauseous? Sherlock was careful to keep his face neutral as John approached with a small container of water and two capsules in his hand. Without touching Sherlock's skin he placed the pills in Sherlock's palm and the water in his other hand. "Take two," John ordered him quietly. "In another four hours I can give you a couple more." He paused, examining Sherlock's bandages with a cursory expression. "In the morning I'll change your bandages and we can get you into something proper."

Nodding his head in assent, Sherlock slipped the pills into his mouth and washed them down with a few sips of water, careful to not ingest too much. His stomach seemed determined to do odd acrobatics and he did not want to risk having the urge to vomit when he was still unable to move. Settling back down on the sofa, he watched John out of the corner of his eyes, able to see him as he puttered about the kitchen, making a mug of tea for himself. None for Sherlock, the curly-haired man noted with a flash of disappointment. He scowled, unaccustomed to the odd pattern of emotions that were slipping through his normally tight grasp on his mind.

"Why won't you have sex with me?" Sherlock asked suddenly, his mind skidding back to the prior topic of conversation. There had to be something that Sherlock was missing, some societal custom particular to John that prevented him from wanting Sherlock the way everyone else did. When a small voice in the back of his mind pointed out that it did not matter why John didn’t, to leave it alone, Sherlock ignored him. The thought that John did not want him bothered him more than he could estimate. What he did not know was why.

John huffed a breath out over the mug and then took another sip, shaking his head. He seemed irritated, on-edge. Sherlock had probably not picked the best time to bring up the topic of conversation, but paying attention to other people's signals had never been a forte of his. Tact was for the unimportant and those who were too worried about damaging other people's feelings. "I told you no, Sherlock. And I meant it."

"But why not," Sherlock clarified. "You must have a reason." Sherlock stared intently at the ceiling. He examined each crack and dip in the ceiling with the utmost concentration, the focus allowing him to ignore the pain pulsing through his limbs and the odd sensation gripping his chest.

"Sex is something that should happen between two people who care for each other." John exhaled slowly, and Sherlock could see his knuckles tighten around the ceramic mug. "Two people who love each other."

"Those are outdated moral standards," Sherlock said dismissively, metaphorically tossing John's words over his shoulder.

"Maybe to you," John pointed out. Sherlock merely shrugged. "Have you ever had sex with someone you've cared about?"

It left an odd, sad feeling in Sherlock's chest at how quickly the answer came to him. "No."

"Never?" There was a haunted expression on John's face, one that scared Sherlock nearly as much as it ignited his curiosity. Sherlock shook his head and lifted an eyebrow at the shift in John's expression. "I'm sorry."

"Based on my experience, there does not seem to be much missing in that particular experience." Enough time had passed that the edge of the pain was slowly seeping away. It hurt, and Sherlock felt tense, but it was no longer the anxious edge of pain that threatened to consume him. Experimentally he flexed his arms, testing the boundaries and limits imposed on him by his body. "I still do not see the logic of your argument."

"Just drop it, Sherlock," John said harshly. Sherlock, for the first time in his life, respected someone else's wishes without a fuss and fell silent. It did not help that his transport was reminding him of many days spent with little sleep, drawing up a metaphorical bill and hitting him with it all at once. It was an odd feeling, drifting in and out of consciousness, the pain and the constant swirl of things a vaguely distant memory as his body demanded, and took, the rest it needed.

He must have fallen asleep again, for it was light outside next time he opened his eyes. John was absent from their flat, his bed made neatly and the kitchen still oddly tidy. He must have gone down to the communal mess hall, then - or the recreational room, or somewhere to escape from Sherlock. A hiss escaped from Sherlock’s gritted teeth as he tightened his grip on the sofa, relishing the pain that lanced through his body. It was a distraction, one he welcomed with open arms. There were vague, hazy memories of being woken up just enough to take two more capsules of painkillers before he was asleep yet again.

Letting out a frustrated groan, Sherlock shifted slightly on the sofa so that his head was angled comfortably. It was barely long enough for all of him stretched out. There was something about John that would not allow Sherlock’s mind to shut off, to ignore the problem that taunted him so ruthlessly. He was a conundrum, and Sherlock had long learned to hate such puzzles.

The vast majority of humanity was easy to figure out - Sherlock was desirable, and they desired to have sex. Sherlock had long learned how to manipulate his body and the flesh of others in order to give them what they desired. In return he had received drugs, money, and the rare moments where his mind shut off enough for him to have even a momentary peace. That was, of course, until Mycroft had gotten wind of what he was doing and had put an end to Sherlock’s activities, at least temporarily. Maintaining his list of clients had been more difficult at Asylum, and he had managed until John had entered the picture.

There was a creak on the steps that drew Sherlock’s attention. It was too light to be John, yet there was no one else that used the staircases with any real frequency. There was something disturbingly familiar about the cadence, but Sherlock could not place it. At least not in any identifiable fashion. His body must have remembered, however, for he felt something shift in his stomach, bile churning in an attempt to escape its confines.

He heard the door open and the footsteps saunter in. Sherlock pointedly continued staring at the ceiling. The data had come together. He recognised the tread, recognised the probable smirk on the stranger’s face. His stomach had progressed past tying itself in knots and was attempting to force its way out through his throat. The door closed and the footsteps progressed closer. This time Sherlock allowed himself to look at the oh-so-familiar face. The chocolate eyes, the taunting smirk, the immaculately-cut suit, and the short dark hair formed a picture that had haunted Sherlock’s dreams for the longest time.

“Miss me?” The voice was playful, taunting, and sent shivers of fear down Sherlock’s spine. His heart sped up automatically, his body shifting into fight-or-flight mode without any deliberate prompting. Shifting slightly on the sofa, Sherlock bit his lips to hide the grimace of pain the movement caused. Thanks to his ribs and the other wounds he was in no shape for running. Which meant that he was trapped, unable to escape the man that was there to do god knows what.

“No,” Sherlock retorted flatly. The feral grin that curved the man’s lips sparked an odd reaction in Sherlock. His heart thumped loudly in his chest, adrenaline flooding his system. How many times had he seen that look before? How many times had he suffered the consequences of it? The drugs they had fed him, how they had gotten him addicted only dimmed the edges of the memory. Besides, they had always preferred him to be able to fight back. “Moriarty.”

“Aww, I know you did.” Jim Moriarty sauntered closer, perching on the edge of the sofa so he could get a better look at Sherlock. Immediately Sherlock tensed away, trying to draw himself as close to the furniture as he could manage in his injured position. “Besides, I don’t go by that name here.” Moriarty reached out and deliberately pressed a hand down on Sherlock’s abdomen, over the graze wound in his stomach. Sherlock jerked and hissed at the pain, unable to contain his reaction as it felt like his insides were ripping themselves in two. “I’m just a little, insignificant actor. Richard Brook.”

Sherlock chose to say nothing, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. He exhaled forcibly, his mind writhing between the pain of his cracked ribs and the palm on his abdomen as the pain increased with the force of Moriarty’s hand. “Brahms,” Sherlock choked out. The pressure intensified and then eased off, leaving Sherlock dazed and disoriented, his vision graying out in places. Unfortunately he was still able to see the delight that danced across Moriarty’s face at the use of the word.

“You still remember your old safe word?” he murmured, delight clear in every syllable. Sherlock ignored him, fighting to get his transport back under control. Half of him craved Moriarty’s touch, craved what had, at times, been so good to him. A quarter wanted to go quiet, submit to Moriarty’s control and allow him to do whatever he pleased. The sanest quarter chose to wait and see, wanted to see what Moriarty had up his sleeve. Those few good times were not nearly enough to make up for the pain and torture he had suffered in the psychopath’s care.

“Not that it matters,” Sherlock muttered, venom dripping from every word. Although they had made him select a safe word, its use merely ended with more pain. It had been a last-ditch effort on his part when he felt he was nearly over the edge, for it earned him a temporary reprieve before things escalated. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not allowed to visit an old friend?” Moriarty was such a good actor. If Sherlock had been a lesser man, he might have believed the hurt in his voice. Not that it mattered, for the mask appeared back on Moriarty’s face within moments. It shifted rapidly to a hurt expression, as if Moriarty genuinely cared that Sherlock had ran away for any reasons other than his own. “An old friend who ran away and abandoned me. After I took such good care of him.” A smile was on the maniacal man’s face now, so inordinately pleased with himself that Sherlock tensed. That look never meant anything good. “Not that it matters,” Moriarty continued. “I have a new toy in mind.”

“John.” Sherlock breathed his flatmate’s name before he was wholly conscious of his actions, and he fought down his rising fear. Moriarty preyed on his emotions and would tear him apart in seconds if he caught an inkling of what had been going through Sherlock’s mind earlier that day. Not that Sherlock was particularly keen on giving up anyone to the man who had preyed on him, but if he had had to make a list, John would have been at the very bottom.

“Very good,” Moriarty said approvingly, a thin, pale hand going up to caress Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock forced himself to remain steady, to not pull back from the touch, no matter how much he wanted to. The more he reacted, the more power Moriarty gathered.

“You can’t have him,” Sherlock told him, attempting to sound firm. A mocking smile danced about his opponent’s lips.

“Oh, Sherly.” Shaking his head, Moriarty trailed a hand to cup the side of Sherlock’s face. “Like you can stop me.” His features sharpened and took on a cruel edge and Sherlock’s mouth went dry. That look was even worse. The hand on Sherlock’s face drifted downwards, nudging the blanket aside. Moriarty crouched next to Sherlock, his face inches away, the cruel, knowing look tying Sherlock’s innards in knots. “I know what you want,” he murmured, his voice low and seductive. “And I’m going to give it to you.”

“I thought you didn’t do your own dirty work,” Sherlock muttered scathingly. His voice hitched as Moriarty’s fingertips slid teasingly under the waistband of his pants, slipping lower until Sherlock felt the psychopath’s hand gently stroke his cock. Despite the danger and the adrenaline, Sherlock’s transport remembered what happened when he did not obey, when he did not get aroused and give them what they wanted.

Moriarty hummed his amusement, his focus on what his hand was doing to Sherlock’s cock. Languidly he stroked Sherlock until he had become fully erect. The pleasure of the strokes combined with the fear sent shivers down the taller man’s spine. “Imagine if this was your pet,” Moriarty murmured, sultry and smooth. “The little blonde military doctor, on his knees for your cock.” Sherlock bit back a soft noise as the mental image entered his mind unbidden. John, next to him on the floor, hand on Sherlock’s cock, caring - looking at Sherlock with warmth, maybe even affection in his gaze. Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat.

“Would he be gentle?” Soft, gentle strokes, and Sherlock’s hips stuttered, seeking more friction. A sob choked him, rendering him silent as he attempted to subdue his body. “Or would he like it rough?” Faster strokes, pressing Sherlock’s foreskin up over the sensitive glans, sending shivers of pleasure to coil low in his belly as his arousal grew. Cool air hit his cock as Moriarty removed the blanket completely, baring Sherlock to the empty room. “What do you think, Sherly?” Moriarty’s voice was playful now, his hand back to the languid, teasing strokes he had started with, just enough to keep Sherlock’s attention without overwhelming him.

Sherlock remained silent, digging his teeth into his lower lip so hard that blood welled out. “We can’t have this, Sherly. You can’t keep good blood from me.” Moriarty’s free hand was on Sherlock’s chin now, tugging the bleeding lip out from between his teeth. Leaning forward, the psychopath lapped up the blood, slipping his tongue easily into Sherlock’s mouth for an oddly gentle exploration. Moriarty pulled back, a soft smile on his face. Sherlock did not resist, a lesson learned from long hours of experience dealing with Moriarty’s games. “You taste so delicious.” Moriarty shivered, so slight that Sherlock nearly missed it.

Silence. Silence was his only weapon. Moriarty thumbed the slit of his cock roughly, drawing a pained gasp from Sherlock. “Naughty Sherly, thinking you can be quiet through all of this.” Shaking his head in mock disappointment, Moriarty’s hand left Sherlock’s cock. Now his nails rasped over Sherlock’s skin, drawing a whimper from the curly-haired man when Moriarty’s hands trailed over the gauze patches. The feeling was enough to set him on the edge, teetering on the brink of losing it and breaking down.

A hand drifted up his body, savagely twisting a nipple. “You know what happens to bad boys.” Sherlock jerked and moaned, his cock throbbing as his arousal continued to grow. Moriarty lapped at his lip, drinking the blood that pooled after Sherlock bit his lip as he writhed under Moriarty’s touch. “Bad boys get punished,” he purred. A smirk danced about his face now. “Would you like it, if your pet punished you? If little Doctor Watson put you over his knee and spanked you like the naughty slut you are?”

“Stop,” Sherlock whimpered, his breath coming faster, short, little gasps as he fought to control the myriad sensations. Moriarty’s nails were roaming hypersensitive skin, the mental images of what he was suggesting flashing through Sherlock’s mind in no semblance of order. Sherlock bent over John’s lap, his hand coming down on the naked flesh of Sherlock’s arse, the sparks of pain and pleasure mingling until they were indistinguishable.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Moriarty’s hand was back on his cock, this time, the short, sharp thrusts that sent shudders of arousal wracking through Sherlock’s body, reducing him to a sobbing mess. Tears were streaming down his face now. He had nothing left to hide; everything was bared to the man who had taken so much from him. “Say his name.” Sherlock shook his head blindly, gritting his teeth to prevent any sounds from escaping his lips. The next few thrusts were sharper, and the pain dueled with pleasure in his body. “Say his name,” Moriarty commanded.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his body spasming as he came, the thick, white ropes of semen spurting up onto his chest. Distantly Sherlock wondered how he could get come out of the gauze. Even more faintly he wondered what John would think. But none of it mattered. Sherlock’s mind had shut down, had dissociated from everything that had happened. He felt Moriarty tuck him back into his pants and smear the semen further into the gauze covering his injuries, a cruel smirk on his face.

“Beautiful,” Moriarty purred. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, ignoring how the curly-haired man jerked underneath him. “Now, we know what happens if you say anything to your pet, don’t we?” Sherlock laid there silently, staring stoically up at the ceiling. Moriarty’s message was clear as day. “Say it.” Moriarty fisted a hand in Sherlock’s hair and pulled it painfully.

“I will say nothing,” Sherlock said dully, giving up what Moriarty wanted. The shorter man kissed him again, lapping at the last droplet of blood pooling on Sherlock’s bottom lip.

“That’s a good Sherly.” With that, he was gone. The sharp sounds of the door opening and closing echoed in the now-quiet flat. Sherlock laid silently on the sofa. Everything felt like it was floating, like he was no longer connected to the floor. His mind knew what to do, having been in this situation more times than it cared to remember. Shutting down all but the most essential functions, Sherlock's brain coaxed him into sitting up, ignoring the twinges of pain from the still-healing ribs and stitches. A distant part of him was thankful that he only had two patches of gauze on his chest, for the majority of the wounds were spared the additional trauma.

Mechanically he stood up and walked over to the kitchen, searching for the gauze and medical tape that John had stockpiled. Grabbing a bunch he took it into the bathroom with him. There were risks getting stitches wet before 24 hours had passed, but Sherlock could already feel the nausea building in his stomach and did not want to succumb to its call. He could not stand another moment with the tacky semen on his skin, nor the ghost of his greatest enemy's touch. Turning on the water, Sherlock left it to heat up to a lukewarm temperature and removed the gauze covering the stitches.

The ones on his calves were harder, for bending down was painful, but he managed. He did not allow himself to think about how he was going to re-apply the gauze and tape himself back together. His mind refused to think about much at all, focused instead on getting him through the rest of his protocol, step by step. Finally free of the gauze Sherlock stepped underneath the spray of water, silent as the refreshing mist dripped down his skin. Some of the wounds stung, and the water felt tepid against his skin, but heating it up could cause his skin to swell and become irritated. An infection was the last thing he needed.

Sherlock scrubbed his stomach and chest until the skin was red and irritated and blood was oozing out from between the stitches. He did not care, did not even notice. All that mattered was erasing the memories of Moriarty's touch from his body. A choked sob escaped his lips and he battled to stay standing up as his legs threatened to give out underneath him. So consumed with what we was doing, Sherlock did not hear the door to the flat open, nor did he hear John calling for him. He was still standing (although barely), staring at nothing, as the water started to turn cold and the throbbing of his skin lessened.

Gentle hands drew back the curtains and touched his shoulders, attempting to turn him and assist him out of the shower. Sherlock hissed and jerked away, reduced to its most primal responses. Callused, gentle hands, used to working, healing. John. "Don't touch me," Sherlock said immediately, aware of how wooden his voice sounded but unable to care.

"Sherlock, you need to get out of the shower." John sounded like he was speaking through a long tunnel, the words long and disjointed.

"Don't touch me," Sherlock repeated, his mind on autopilot. He could not bear to have John touch him, could not bear to sully what was good and right with something like him, broken beyond repair.

"I'm not touching you." There was something odd in John's tone, something wary and worried and so twisted together that Sherlock could not discern the parts that made up the whole. Not that he was capable of trying, in the state he was in. "Let's get you dried off, get some pants on you, and you can lay back down."

Part of Sherlock's mind locked itself onto John, onto his words, onto the small comfort his presence could offer. The doctor in him had reduced everything to simple commands - take this towel (Sherlock took the towel), dry your hips off (Sherlock dried his hips), your legs (Sherlock dried his legs), and so on and so forth. Sherlock did everything he was told, his eyes wide and seeing nothing. On occasion John's fingers would brush his body and he would flinch away instinctively, a protective mechanism from months spend suffering Moriarty's less than tender ministrations.

He did not know what John saw. He did not care. All he knew was that he needed to get back to his bed, somewhere Moriarty had not touched him, and get John somewhere safe, for Sherlock could no longer protect him. Mutely he slid the pants up his hips at John’s command, the soft cotton boxers clinging to his damp skin. "We need to get gauze back on your injuries," John murmured, hovering nearby as Sherlock staggered back into the room. His eyes fell on the sofa, shame rippling through his body at the memories associated with it. He shook his head, moving towards his bed instead.

Gesturing for Sherlock to sit to sit on the edge, John grasped a clean towel and very gently dried Sherlock's hair, carefully watching his hands to make sure they did not come in contact with Sherlock’s body. Sherlock calmed slightly, feeling the edge of his tension bleed out of his body. As long as John was protected from him, it was okay. He allowed himself to lean back into that little bit of touch, the sensation of warmth and comfort that was such an easily shattered illusion. "If I wear gloves, can I check and re-bandage your wounds?"

Sherlock nodded his assent. John was not part of his routine, but Sherlock would adapt. Normally the wounds were left on their own to heal. Sherlock was not an ordinary victim of sexual assault. What Moriarty had done was nothing new. Not physically, anyway. The mental addition had been - Sherlock's thoughts hit a wall, a carefully constructed section of his mind palace that had been designed to protect him after such assaults. While he could not completely block out their happening, it allowed him time to process, to return to his fragile semblance of normal. His version of normal, anyway. It still successfully alienated others.

He felt the latex barrier touch his skin as John carefully cleaned the wounds and covered them in soft gauze, affixing the dressings to his skin with medical tape. John's face was drawn and tight, as if he was physically hurting. If Sherlock had been in a better state he would have attempted to deduce why, but for now all he could do was watch his every movement and hope things would be over soon. It was the first time had been tended to after an Event by someone that would have a reason to possibly care about him. He had expected a maelstrom of emotions, a cocktail of fear, shame, guilt, and humiliation. Instead Sherlock felt nothing.

Maybe Moriarty had finally done what he had threatened. Maybe he had left Sherlock without a heart. He would prefer that, certainly, because if he did have one, it was no longer worth anything, shattered into pieces as it was. John? John was speaking now, his words flowing over Sherlock like some odd, ethereal wind. He had a mobile pressed to his ear and was pacing a few steps away. “I don’t know what, but something happened. No, I can’t deal with it. I can’t. I need to give him something, and you need to be here when he wakes up.”

Distantly Sherlock registered the words, knowing they should mean something. He felt a sharp needle pierce his forearm and he jerked away from it, squirming as pain lanced through his skin, the wounds sensitive after their treatment in the shower. Blissfully everything went blank and he was left in darkness.

When he came to, it was twilight, the faint light seeping through the curtains. He had been out most of the day, then. John! Sherlock’s head came up and, ignoring the pain blazing through his veins, he twisted back and forth, searching for his flatmate. “He’s not here.” Mycroft’s voice cut through Sherlock’s panic, dampening it.

“He - I -” Sherlock fought for words, fought to make them make sense without revealing too much. “Does anyone know you’re here?” The syllables felt clumsy on his tongue and he grimaced. Must have been a side-effect of what John had given him.

“I was watched, yes,” Mycroft answered smoothly. He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the umbrella handle. “What happened, Sherlock?”

“He’s back.” The words were difficult to say, yet he managed, and he knew that Mycroft would understand the implication behind the simple statement. He glanced at his brother and saw the older man pale underneath his already pale skin, his knuckles white around the grip on his brolly. Looking down at himself, he saw that he had been covered up by a blanket, thankfully different from the one Moriarty had used in his assault. He drew in a ragged, shuddering breath as he fought to get himself back under control.

Things were clearer than they had been earlier, the drug he had been given to calm his panic slowly leaving his system. The reality of what had happened earlier in the day was not fading, but had been compartmentalised with the rest of the trauma he had suffered at Moriarty’s hands. It would be a battle to keep it from bothering him, but he had to fight it. There was too much at risk.

“What is he after?” Mycroft asked steadily. While they had identified Sherlock’s captor long ago, arresting him and detaining and charging him with the crimes was another matter altogether. Sherlock had been abused by one of the world’s most powerful criminals, so well-known that even Mycroft (who essentially ran the British government) could not get his hands on him. Although the Holmes brothers feuded often as siblings, they were united in this goal. It mattered less why Mycroft was angered (likely the stain on the Holmes name rather than what Sherlock had suffered). Sherlock preferred to view it as beneficial, for it meant he had additional resources on his side.

“John,” Sherlock said after a long pause, as if he could not believe it himself.

“Are you going to warn him?” Mycroft inquired quietly, as if he already knew the answer. That was confirmed when Sherlock shook his head and the elder Holmes replied with a nod. “He threatened you?”

“You could say that,” Sherlock answered, his voice bitter. He fell silent as Mycroft sat there, feeling his brother’s gaze studying his expressions. Sherlock’s focus was preparing himself for the battles to come, drawing together the shattered pieces of his mental armour and fortifying them to restore them to their former brilliance. It was an oddly familiar process. Moriarty had broken him once already, and Sherlock had escaped.

Now, he was back and determined to take it a step forward. “Do you know why he is after Dr. Watson?” Mycroft’s gaze intensified. Sherlock closed his eyes to escape the scrutiny, the same look that he normally turned on others. It was an odd reversal. “Ah,” Mycroft murmured, a soft exhalation.

Sherlock searched inside his mind palace for what had been lurking there days before. Ghosts of sensation, the faint longing when John spoke, the comfort Sherlock felt around his flatmate. All of that was gone. Every room he checked, looking for any remnant of John, was empty, devoid of life. There was nothing behind. “It’s nothing, Mycroft.”

“You have always been far too good at lying to yourself,” Mycroft said, his voice quiet and pointed.

Sherlock bit back the retort that came easily to his lips. There was no point in bantering, no point in denying something that, at its basest level, held some semblance of truth. “Where is he?” He winced once he was finished speaking, for it was a question he had never intended to ask. Even the shortest sentence bared his intentions to his brother.

“Down in the recreation room, I do believe.” Mycroft paused to check something on his phone, and when Sherlock opened his eyes to look at his brother. Mycroft’s face was oddly grim. “He has made a new acquaintance.”

Sherlock’s mind ran rampant. Did he have it in him to defy Moriarty? Could he risk everything, risk the punishment falling on his shoulders and going through everything he went through again? The bigger question was could he handle standing to the side, watching Moriarty destroy John like he had taken Sherlock apart? He shuddered violently, stifling a whimper at the pain. He could not. There was no possible way that Sherlock would stand to the side and allow Moriarty to destroy John. “I need your help.”

Mycroft’s body tensed and his eyebrow lifted the slightest amount. “Are you certain?” he asked quietly, the implications heavy in his tone.

Sherlock’s stomach rolled as it twisted itself into knots, but he nodded. It was the hardest thing he would ever ask, and he so did hate to ask things of his brother. For John’s sake, he was willing to swallow his pride. “I will acquire secure phone lines for us both. Text only, for Moriarty likely has cameras installed in this flat already.” Mycroft said, his eyes thoughtful. Sherlock could not deny that he felt the slightest bit better with his brother joining the battle.

“You hate texting,” Sherlock muttered automatically, shifting on the bed. The clamour in his mind was easing and the physical pain of his exertions was starting to set in. Mycroft stood up and walked into the kitchen, returning moments later with two capsules of paracetamol and a third tablet, a glass of water in his other hand. Sherlock looked up at his brother with narrowed eyes.

“It is a slightly stronger painkiller than you have been taking, but it does not have addictive properties. Ketorolac. Normally taken in hospitals, but I feel that as you have a doctor for a flatmate, you shall be fine.” Sherlock hated the gentle, caring cadence to Mycroft’s voice, hated the reminder that his brother actually did care. “Dr. Watson indicated that you might need something stronger for a day or two after what you did to yourself.”

Two opinions dueled inside Sherlock’s mind for a few brief moments. He deserved to suffer, but the pain was acute and could be distracting, and he needed all of his mental acuity to turn towards the problem of Moriarty. Reluctantly he took the pills from his brother. Tossing them into his mouth, he grabbed the glass and lifted his head up enough to take a few swallows. Mycroft’s hand slipped behind his head and cradled it gently. It was more affection than Sherlock could ever remember his brother demonstrating, and it made him uncomfortable.

“You should leave,” he told Mycroft bluntly. Yet there was something in Sherlock’s voice, something grateful that he wanted to lock into the farthest depths of his mind so it could not escape again.

“Of course,” Mycroft said smoothly. He gently smoothed a curl out of Sherlock’s face, his expression uncharacteristically fond. Standing up, he grabbed his umbrella and walked towards the door. “The phones should be delivered sometime in the night, by one of my staff. You know the words, do you not?”

“Caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock repeated softly. It was the Holmes motto, something that had been bred into their bones since they were born. Mycroft merely lifted an eyebrow and Sherlock dutifully said it again, this time in their coded language, an amalgamation of several common dialects. It was unrecognisable to all except for those who had been trained to hear it the right way.

“Good.” Without preamble Mycroft sauntered through the door, twirling his umbrella behind him as if he had not a care in the world. Sherlock watched him leave, seeing the slight tenseness in his shoulders, the minute change in his footfalls, both indicators of how deeply concerned Mycroft was over what had happened. All that Moriarty had done was something Sherlock had never disclosed to anyone. It had not seemed relevant, and he had attempted to delete it, to push it to the back of his mind.

Moriarty’s return had sabotaged the several months of effort Sherlock had put forth on that project. The memories were stark and vivid, the curse of an eidetic memory, and they lingered, easily triggered by the faintest recollection. Most rapidly brought to the surface was Moriarty’s last conquest. Sherlock did not blush, did not react when the scene replayed itself in his mind. Every time he reacted to something Moriarty had done was a victory for the smaller man, the psychopath that haunted so many of his nightmares.

While Sherlock could not always stop his transport’s reaction to Moriarty’s physical presence, he was far more successful in stemming the influence the memories had on his body when there were no real triggers. There were footsteps coming up the stairs, soft and gentle, measured in a way that Sherlock recognised. He glanced at the clock and realized that dinner must have been over, for it was nearly curfew, and John must be coming up to go to sleep.

And here Sherlock was, still on his bed, covered solely by that blasted blanket. He had never missed proper pyjamas more. A suit was out of the question (far too constricting), but anything was better than the blatant nudity he felt all of a sudden, naked and far too vulnerable. It had been bad enough that Moriarty had gone after him in his flat - it pressed the point that Moriarty would do whatever it took to get to Sherlock. He would go wherever he needed to.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was cautious, but there was a pleased undertone that sent shivers sparking down Sherlock’s spine. He had met Moriarty, then, and Moriarty must have really turned on the charm, for Sherlock could hear John’s curiosity, his want in the tone of his voice. It made Sherlock sick.

“I’m awake,” Sherlock answered, his tone dismissive. He could not help the recoil, could not keep his body still as John came closer. He wanted more, he wanted less, he wanted John closer, he wanted him far away. Most of all he just wanted him somewhere safe, where Moriarty could not reach him. The realistic view was that John was going nowhere, and Moriarty was just getting closer.

“How are you feeling?” John tugged a stool closer. Sherlock absentmindedly wondered exactly when they had gotten a stool, for he did not remember seeing it prior to now. This was Doctor Watson, not John. The realisation sent Sherlock’s heart plummeting, although he did not know why. He absentmindedly wondered if it was one of those feeling things that he had no understanding of. Probably.

Sherlock took an inventory of his aches and pains, pleased when the bill did not come back too high. “Sore,” he said quietly. “But not painful.” At least not more than he could handle. There had been enough time, Sherlock was startled to realize, that the medication had taken the edge off.

“I need to check to see if you tore your stitches out.” John’s voice was professional, and he was already drawing latex gloves onto his hands. Sherlock eyed the gloves, thankful at the same time that he hated their implications. When John made no move to touch him, Sherlock realized that he was waiting for permission.

“You don’t have to treat me like your other imbecilic patients,” Sherlock snapped, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Yet John did not flinch, his expression did not change. It remained detached, clinical. It made Sherlock feel horrible.

“When was your last dose of pain medication?” Gently John drew back the section of the blanket covering Sherlock’s chest and arm.

“Approximately thirty minutes ago.” A glance at the clock had confirmed his guess. “Two paracetamol and a ketorolac.”

“Good,” John said. He peeled back the tape and examined each set of stitches, occasionally prodding the flesh gently to test the patency of the stitches. It was quick work, because it was mere minutes before Sherlock was covered back up and the bottom of the blanket pulled up to expose the stitches on his leg. “I don’t think you pulled any beyond what they can handle,” John declared, pulling the gloves off and shooting them into the rubbish bin. “Do you think you can sit up?”

Carefully Sherlock tensed his abdominal muscles, gritting his teeth as pain lanced through him. John’s newly re-gloved hands were on his back and shoulder, carefully helping him sit up and maneuver into a more comfortable position. Sherlock met John’s eyes for the first time in what felt like ages and his breath caught in his throat. There was a small, pleased smile on John’s face and his eyes were warm, as if he was truly happy with the progress Sherlock had made. It was sinful and Sherlock just wanted to melt onto John and never let him go.

He did not move, of course. Touching John, or letting John touch him, would sully the doctor forever. John was good, and pure, and he deserved none of Sherlock’s baggage. “There you go,” the doctor murmured, encouraging. The blanket was still wrapped tight around Sherlock, and it felt oddly constricting. “Let’s get some pyjamas on you, yeah?”

Sherlock wanted to respond, wanted to make some snappish retort, when he saw John stand up and walk over to Sherlock’s wardrobe and pull out his favorite pair of pyjamas. Gently the latex-covered hands lifted Sherlock’s feet, feeding them through the bunched-up pyjama trousers like one would a small child. Next John encouraged Sherlock to stand, and Sherlock did, doing everything he could to avoid any of his skin coming in contact with John’s body. Clothes were a barely-there barrier. Sherlock was pollution, he would seep into John and never let go.

Gingerly John dragged the waistband up until it settled on Sherlock’s hips in its proper place, the plaid fabric comforting but not clinging to the gauze. It also did not provide too much pressure or friction to the numerous bruises dotting his thighs. The cotton shirt was one of his loosest, which was beneficial as Sherlock could not raise his arms much above his shoulders. The jab of pain forced the air out of his lungs and he winced.

Murmuring gentle encouragement, John guided Sherlock’s wrists and arms through the shirt until he was fully dressed. Last was Sherlock’s favorite dressing gown. The silk glided on, preventing either of the fabrics from rubbing abrasively against bruised or broken skin. “You need sleep,” John told him, stepping back a half-step to sweep his gaze across Sherlock’s body. It was a clinical observation, nothing more, but Sherlock could not deny that it made his skin tingle.

Carefully he walked Sherlock to his bed, his hands cool against the alabaster skin. John lifted up the covers and helped Sherlock slide under, meticulously only allowing his latex-covered hands to press against Sherlock’s body as he arranged him like he would a child. There was a certain gentleness to his movements that made Sherlock feel treasured. It was something he had never felt before, and part of him craved more. Craved more of John’s touch, more of those gentle, caring expressions.

It did not matter, for Sherlock would never have it. His only goal was to make sure that Moriarty did not destroy the part of John that made him who he was. That made him smile that way at Sherlock and that guided those gentle hands, the hands that healed and saved and treated Sherlock as if he was something valuable, something precious, something that should not be so badly broken a second time. “Sleep,” John murmured, his voice gentle, commanding.

Sherlock slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be either this coming Thursday or Friday (7/18 or 7/19). Depends on how easy this next chapter is to edit. All chapters will be posted before I go on my hiatus while I move! Promise. I wouldn't leave you guys hanging. Especially not where I plan to drop you.


	7. Between my Lies and How the Truth Gets in the Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I love you all and I'm American, here's the next chapter. I don't like sitting on things. So expect to see Chapter 8 Thursday or Friday.
> 
> I'm planning to post a preview of it on [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com) sometime tomorrow.

John stood and looked down at his flatmate asleep in the bed. It had been one of the best and worst days in John’s recent memory. Sherlock had been acting erratically, even for him, and it had given John quite the headache. Now John had to worry about whether or not Sherlock’s stunt in the shower would infect one of the deeper wounds on his abdomen. Finding him in the shower, the blank expression on his face – John’s mind had crashed and burned.

He had handled him carefully, acquiescing to Sherlock’s wishes and getting him tucked into his bed. But he could not deal with it. Anthea had delivered some valium in part of the drug kit that John had requested and he used it to give both of them some peace and quiet. John had left, leaving Sherlock sleeping quietly. He had spent some time outside, sitting under a tree, staring at nothing. Then he had gone to the recreation center.

There had been a new guy, standing in John’s normal corner, chewing nervously on his thumb as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He caught sight of John, throwing a shy smile in his direction. The man was slightly taller than John, with brown eyes and short brown hair. He was dressed in faded jeans and a tight cotton shirt. Not that John was looking (he wasn’t), but the shirt seemed to cling to him in all the right places.

John watched him for a few seconds, his mind drifting back to when he was new to Asylum and Justin and Cameron had made him feel comfortable once he had ventured out. Walking over, he offered a smile. “Hi,” he said. “John.”

The man took John’s hand and shook it, an easy smile on his face. “So you’re the infamous John?” His voice was warm, a chuckle creeping in. John laughed in response to the man’s easygoing friendliness. After finding Sherlock in the shower, the normality of the interaction helped the tension seep from his shoulders.

“Infamous?” He shifted slightly so that he wasn’t cornering the other man, amusement visible in the lines of his face. “I don’t know about that.”

“You’re the roommate of that nutter, though, aren’t you?” the other man asked curiously.

“Er, yeah,” John admitted. It was funny, and he should have laughed, but part of him could not get the sight of Sherlock out of his mind, standing bare in the shower, abdomen red with blood and skin raw from constant scrubbing. Nutter was a rather apt description.

“The name is Richard.” Richard smiled shyly at John and John felt himself relax completely. They started chatting. John was surprised and delighted to find out that Richard wasn’t just well-read, but smart and funny as well. He was like Sherlock, but actually pleasant to be around. John was able to even talk him into playing a game of air hockey.

The clock sounded that it was nearing curfew and John sighed. Sherlock. “Something wrong?” Richard asked, his head tilting to the side.

John pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. “My flatmate got a bit banged up. I left him by himself, and he’s not going to remember to take his meds. In fact, I’d better go check on him now.” He flashed a smile apologetically at Richard.

“You dropped your mobile.” Richard extended a hand towards John, the mobile balancing on his palm. John reached out and took it, having to consciously avoid looking at how slim and delicate the fingers were. They were gorgeous. He dropped the mobile in his pocket and smiled back at the other man.

“Thanks,” John said, grinning ruefully. “Well - see you tomorrow?” He paused. “We could meet for breakfast, if you want.” It was a bit of a risk, asking that. For one, he wasn’t gay. Maybe bisexual. John was becoming more and more comfortable with that word as time went on. He forced his focus back to Richard.

“I’d love to,” The taller man responded, a shy smile on his face. “I should get back to my room, too.”

John had walked back to his flat with a slight grin on his face. There was something about Richard that he just couldn’t get out of his mind. He checked his mobile, curious. There was a new text. ‘Hi, John. RB’ John grinned. He liked this man already.

John shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. Sherlock was tucked into bed, fast asleep, and John was left, staring at him and wondering what to do. Mutely he grabbed a clean pair of pyjamas and walked into the bathroom, turning on the water. His shower was quick and silent, haunted by the memories of finding Sherlock frantically scrubbing at his bleeding stitches as if there was no way he could ever be clean.

He had seen that before, in a rape survivor he had encountered during his medical training. The same desire to not be touched, the same fear, the same blank expression. Yet there had been no evidence. John shuddered, his mind flashing back to the tests he had undergone in the hospital, his last trip there. Pushing the thoughts from his mind, he toweled himself off and dressed in his pyjamas. Richard. He could think of the simple, charming man he had met earlier that evening.

Grabbing his mobile, John settled on his bed with a book. ‘How are you? JW’ he texted, sending it to the number that had messaged him earlier.

His phone buzzed not more than thirty seconds later. ‘Bored! RB’

John snorted, his fingers moving on the keys. ‘I’m reading a book. The nutter’s asleep. JW’

They texted back and forth until John fell asleep. He woke up to find his mobile still clutched loosely in his hand. Sherlock was oddly quiet over the next few days, speaking as little to John as he could get away with and still insisting on the doctor wearing the latex gloves whenever he tended to Sherlock’s wounds. John barely noticed the difference, as consumed as he was with happenings outside of their flat.

When he wasn’t checking in on Sherlock, he spent his free time in the recreation room, chatting with Richard when he was around. If he wasn’t, they were texting. How Richard was able to text during therapy John had no idea, but it was impressive nonetheless. It was rare that one of Richard’s texts didn’t make John laugh or smile. God, John thought. Richard was so smart and funny and wonderful and seemed so genuinely interested him.

This was, of course, in blatant violation of the rules governing the place that they lived - no relationships between inhabitants. John really doubted it could hurt much, and from what the other men said, it wasn’t uncommon for that rule to be broken. Celibacy was difficult to maintain, even with a history of domestic abuse.

Even a quick, nameless shag was better than nothing. The release was incredible after being denied it for so long. Or so John had heard, anyway. He snorted. Despite having a three-continent reputation, he had no desire to engage with some random man just to get off. It was hard to date a bloke, living there. For one, the curfew. Dates were hard when one couldn’t leave campus or really seek any privacy.

Not that it really stopped John. As time went on, he spent more time out of the flat with Richard and less cooped up with his quiet, moody roommate. They talked comfortably about anything and everything - from John’s military service to Richard’s time working on his academics. He had his PhD and had been a professor before he came to Asylum. His story was similar to John’s, except it was an abusive ex-boyfriend.

One night, about a week after they met, John was standing with Richard in line for dinner. “Do you want to eat outside?” he asked, feeling oddly hopeful. Richard smiled shyly at him, brown eyes twinkling, and nodded. The two got their food and wandered out of the packed cafeteria, headed for a more isolated part of Asylum. It was highly against the rules, what they were doing, but John found that he couldn’t really care less at that particular moment. The possibility of being caught merely increased the thrill.

“So what’s it like, living with Sherlock?” Richard asked, eating the meatloaf with likely fake enthusiasm. John hoped it was fake, at least. The meatloaf tasted extremely dry. He gave up on it, resolving to make something proper when he returned to his flat. To Sherlock’s flat. The flat he shared with his nutty flatmate.

“He’s bizarre,” John answered honestly, buttering his toast. He smeared jam on it next and then stuffed a corner in his mouth, groaning sinfully. It was delicious.

“How so?” Richard’s eyes were twinkling in amusement, and his smile was gentle. John smiled back. He felt as giddy as a schoolgirl, which was a seriously wrong mental image, in his opinion. If he was anything, he should be a giddy school boy. Did schoolboys get giddy? Was he rambling? Shut up now, John, he told himself. Next he was going to start babbling out loud.

“He leaves bloody body parts in the fridge,” John said with a chuckle of disbelief. “He sticks them in the kettle. He probably has them under his bed.”

“No!” Richard gasped, a hand over his mouth. John started laughing - hysterical laughter? He had no idea what happened. He didn’t laugh. Laughter was for normal people. Yet being around Richard was so freeing that it just felt right. It was relaxing, though, to decompress, to talk about the strange flatmate that could influence his life with even the smallest changes.

Richard’s reactions were comedic and perfectly timed and John felt himself grinning so widely that he felt his face was going to split in two. The conversation drifted away from Sherlock, drifting to John’s rugby days and Richard’s former PhD colleagues. He never seemed to run out of interesting stories and he had a knack for deducing people that seemed to rival Sherlock’s. He was far less of an arse about it, though, a fact that John appreciated immensely.

Finally they fell quiet. They were out late, probably approaching curfew. John didn’t care. All that awaited him back in the flat was a too sexy for his own good, injured, whiny flatmate. With John’s luck he’d have a good idea of what he spent most of his evening doing and John didn’t care for the interrogation that would follow. If John was extremely unlucky Mycroft would know, and he would certainly hear about it and possibly even be threatened.

Neither of those thoughts exactly filled John with a sense of hope. However, Richard shifted slightly closer, a gleam in his eyes, his head tilted, and it was perfect and just so close… John leaned forward and captured Richard’s lips with his own. It was nothing like Sherlock’s bruising kiss from a week ago. This was soft, sensual, and passionate - loving, almost. It was everything John loved in a kiss all rolled into one incredible package.

He slipped up a hand to cup the back of Richard’s head and deepened the kiss. It was tongues and teeth and nibbling and sucking and bloody wonderful and why John hadn’t tried this sooner, he didn’t know. The rasp of stubble as their faces rubbed together wasn’t something John had experienced before, but it was an experience he wanted to repeat. They snogged for several long, glorious minutes, John panting by the time they broke apart. There was a light flush decorating Richard’s cheeks, and John grinned shyly at him.

“That was…wow,” he finished lamely. John hadn’t been snogged properly in who knew how long. All he knew was that he wanted to do it again, and soon. If he was really lucky, things would go further. Richard grinned wickedly and stood up, pulling John up with him. Grabbing the slightly shorter man and pulling him lean against his body, Richard kissed him again, darker and deeper this time, his tongue determined to possess, to own. John was fine with that, he decided. Especially if Richard would continue to fuck his mouth with his tongue. Bloody brilliant, it was.

“I should go,” Richard said breathlessly, lingering close enough to John’s mouth that John knew he didn’t want to, really. He wanted to stay with John as much as John wanted to stay with him.

“Me too,” John breathed. He kissed Richard again - once, twice, three times. Finally they pulled away for good. “Tomorrow?”

“Breakfast,” Richard confirmed, a shy smile on his face. He turned around and walked away, a cocky swing to his hips that John found inordinately sexy. John turned and faced the path to his own building. It was only then that it hit him - he’d spent over half an hour snogging a relative stranger (did a week count as a stranger? Friend? Acquaintance? Who knew?) out in the middle of nowhere because relationships were forbidden where he lived.

There was no way he was going to get this past Sherlock. John sighed, trudging back to the flat with a resigned sigh. If he was lucky, the painkillers Sherlock had taken before John left for the evening had kicked in and he was asleep. For once, John was lucky. Sherlock was on the sofa, his eyes closed and his breathing steady and deep. John showered, changed into pyjamas, and went to bed.

\--

Two weeks later, Sherlock opened his eyes once he heard John’s breathing deepen and fall into the familiar pattern of his slumber. It was easier on both of them if Sherlock pretended he was asleep the majority of the time the doctor was in the flat. If John had picked up on how suspicious it was, he had said nothing. Sherlock had the sinking feeling that his flatmate had simply not noticed, as consumed as he was with Moriarty.

It was torture, when John returned to the flat. Sherlock could read Moriarty’s touch in the wrinkles of John’s shirt, their activities in the soft glisten of moisture on John’s lips, the faint redness on his cheek and neck caused by stubble burn. Every time he saw John it was another stab to the empty spot in his chest cavity where his heart had been.

He grabbed his mobile and accessed the secured line, checking for any news from his brother. Mycroft had been drawn out of town on what both Holmes’ felt was a deliberate ploy on Moriarty’s part to separate them. Moriarty was going to make another move, something that would humiliate Sherlock even further. Sherlock just did not know what he had planned.

Tucking the secured mobile aside, Sherlock glanced at the clock. His normal mobile beeped and he looked at it, speculative and knowing at the same time. ‘Come and play. JM’ Tucking it in his pocket, Sherlock stood, carefully changing out of his pyjamas and into one of his immaculate suits. It was a painful process, but last time Sherlock had met Moriarty he had been practically naked. Coming armoured would make the pain just a little bit easier.

With a quick glance to check his surroundings Sherlock slipped out of the flat. He closed the door carefully behind him, padding noiselessly downstairs and outside. John was tired, had had a long day, and would likely not be awoken unless he had a nightmare. He would not likely ask for an alibi when Sherlock returned home.

Home. Sherlock shook his head, forcing the thoughts out, the meaningless, sentimental speculation that would consume him if he allowed it. He had to be focused to face Moriarty. Smoothing his face out, putting on his best mask, Sherlock sauntered farther forward, eyes flickering as he looked for the smallest clue as to Moriarty’s location. A small light flashed twice in one of the darkest corners. There.

Moriarty came into view as Sherlock approached. It felt odd, what he was doing. Like he was a lamb voluntarily going to the lion for slaughter. He did not allow himself to think too much about it, for he would leave if he did. It was especially difficult after their last encounter. John, Sherlock told himself, allowing his mind to linger on that thought for mere seconds before it was suppressed. That was his reason.

“Sherly!” Moriarty giggled and smiled. He was dressed casually, maintaining his Asylum persona. Faded, scruffy jeans, a too-tight cotton shirt, and the half-broken posture that made him seem shy yet approachable. “You came to play.”

Sherlock watched him intently, wary. “What do you want?”

“I’ve missed you,” Moriarty purred, walking over. It was an odd gait, different from his normal detached self-assuredness. This was possessive, as if he was a panther declaring a claim on his prey. It was vicious and deadly and Sherlock fought the instinct to take a step back. He held his chin higher, keeping his face steely.

“I’m afraid that is an isolated event,” Sherlock responded, his voice as disinterested as his gaze. He couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath as Moriarty got closer, couldn’t help the fear that clenched him in its grip and threatened to make him shake.

“Do you like it, seeing your pet come home after he’s been naughty?” Moriarty was standing inches away, his head tilted coyly to the side. He sauntered around Sherlock, inspecting every inch of him. A hand fisted in Sherlock’s curls and yanked his head back, drawing a whimper from the taller man for the wound in his head had not fully healed. “Oh, that hurts, does it?”

Sherlock was silent, not resisting as Moriarty leaned in and licked a broad swath of his tongue up the side of his neck. Without intending to Sherlock took a step back, trying to get out of Moriarty’s grasp. A sharp yank to his hair had him bringing his legs back together, standing in his former position. “Good boy,” Moriarty praised, releasing his grasp in Sherlock’s hair.

This was not going the way he planned. Moriarty was supposed to mess with him and then leave. Instead, he seemed to be getting even more predatory. Judging by the bulge in his jeans, he was also sexually aroused by what he was doing. His mask must be failing, then. He closed his eyes, taking a few brief moments to fortify his defenses before he opened them again. This time he let the mask slip. “Answer me,” Moriarty demanded.

It was mere seconds later when Sherlock turned to look at Moriarty. If the psychopath wanted him to play, he would. He dropped his gaze to the floor, shifting his posture to look smaller, more submissive. It was a line he had to walk carefully. Too much and it would anger Moriarty. Too little, and Sherlock would be punished. “I don’t like seeing him with you,” he told the grass, staying as close to the truth as possible. “I dislike seeing the reminders of your time together on his clothing, on his body.”

“But you know you deserve it, don’t you?” Fingers tightened in his hair again, although this time they allowed Sherlock to tilt his head back under his own power. The fingers tugged insistently until he had bent his neck to the desired angle. The hand did not release – probably for faster access to yank if Sherlock refused to answer a question.

“Yes.” He did not make eye contact, instead staring straight up into the dark sky.

“And why is that?” Moriarty pressed.

Sherlock swallowed, taking the brief second of respite he was given to steel himself against what he knew Moriarty wanted him to say. “Because I’m a worthless little slut who doesn’t know his place.”

There was a soft, pleased noise from the psychopath standing inches away, and Sherlock’s head was allowed to return to its normal position. “I’m so glad you remember your lessons,” Moriarty murmured, his voice low and throaty. “Especially the ones I had to fight a little harder to get you to remember.” His hand caressed Sherlock’s lower back, where several tattoos had once laid when Sherlock forgot his ‘lessons’. One of his first acts upon escaping was to have them removed.

“Time for you to go back to your pet, hmm?” Moriarty leaned forward and licked Sherlock’s earlobe, seemingly delighted when the taller man shivered under his touch. “Of course, he’s almost my pet now. Such a bland little toy you want to play with, Sherly.” The shorter man shook his head in mock disappointment. “Next time you have to pick someone who’s a challenge for me to break.”

“Yes, Master,” Sherlock said quietly, his voice a hint above a whisper. This pleased Moriarty to no end, for his face brightened up like he was a child who had just been gifted his favorite candy.

He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s mouth and then savagely nipped at his bottom lip, barely avoiding drawing blood. “Later, Sherly.” Waving a hand in a gesture of farewell, Moriarty turned around on the ball of his foot and strode off into the distance.

Sherlock stood where Moriarty had left him, numb all the way through. It was a miracle he was still standing with the way his limbs felt. He took a deep breath and then exhaled it out forcibly, ignoring the twinge in his ribs as he did so. Turning around, he strode back to the building he lived in, sneaking silently up to his flat before he grabbed the secured mobile. ‘Tomorrow. SH’

Grabbing his Belstaff coat and sticking both mobiles in his pockets, Sherlock glanced around the flat one last time to see if there was anything else he would need in the next twenty four hours. He paused, gazing at the sleeping form of his flatmate. Societally, fondness and warmth were expected when looking at the object of one’s adoration. Sherlock just felt empty.

Without looking back Sherlock turned and left the flat, closing the door behind him.

\--

The next morning came sooner than he had expected. John was just thankful he didn’t have nightmares. Sherlock had been gone when John woke up. While this in the past would have prompted worry, John merely shrugged it aside. He figured that Mycroft would notify him if something happened to Sherlock. It was easier than he thought, banning his flatmate from his mind. It was peaceful without the six-odd-foot of snarky whatever-he-did taking up space in John’s thoughts.

He slid easily into the booth across from Richard, a smile on his face. Richard’s face lit up, and John marveled at how casual and natural things were. No snarky comments, no bizarre experiments, nothing. John pondered for a few seconds about the logistics of rooming with Richard instead of Sherlock. They certainly would have to do a lot less sneaking about if they ended up wanting to have sex, a pleasant collateral, but John was not letting himself think that far ahead. It was a bit presumptuous, and John wasn’t positive that he was ready to take that step. “Sleep well?” John asked, buttering his toast and steeping his tea.

Richard smiled - the warm, cheerful smile of his that set butterflies flying in John’s stomach. “As well as could be expected,” he said. He frowned slightly. “Did you see Sherlock?”

“He wasn’t in the flat this morning.” John shrugged. “Not sure what he’s up to.”

“He dropped by my place last night,” Richard murmured, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “He told me to leave you alone.” John’s protective instincts surged. “I think he’s jealous.”

John snorted through his toast. “Sherlock Holmes? Jealous?” He took another bite and then sipped his cuppa. “The world would fall apart.”

“I got a day pass for this weekend.” Richard smiled, taking a bite of his breakfast like he hadn’t said the most fabulous thing in the world. “Well, technically it’s a whole weekend pass, but I know you said Sherlock was healing, so I wasn’t certain if you would want to leave him the whole weekend.”

“Who’d you kill for that?” John whistled, impressed. He had heard of people being granted weekend passes, but he’d never met someone with them. They were rare and hard to get and required connections John could only dream of. Asylum was a safe haven for those that had nowhere else to go. What kept them there also kept them safe. Richard laughed at John’s joke, his smile light, and easy. John’s heart fluttered. Things were so easy with him, so relaxed and casual. It was nothing like taking care of the stroppy toddler that spent most of the day sulking about the flat.

When he wasn’t trying to blow the flat up, of course. Or spill acid on the counters, or anything else that Sherlock got up to when John wasn’t there. His phone vibrated and he sighed, exasperated. The only other person that texted him besides Richard was Sherlock. Instead, the text was from a number he didn’t recognize. John frowned. The text simply read, ‘Stay away from him. He’s dangerous.’

“What’s that?” Richard asked politely, noting John’s change in expression. John showed him the text, puzzled and more than a bit skeptical.

“The number’s blocked. I wonder if they meant Sherlock.” John’s mind flashed over the various injuries the curly-haired man had sustained, but John had never been there with him when he was injured.

“Probably,” Richard murmured, studying the text with an interested expression. John looked at him hopefully. Could he tell anything else from the message? “From the stories you’ve told me, I have no doubt you’ll get hurt by that - that lunatic someday.” He shuddered.

“Sherlock’s not that bad,” John answered automatically. He paused. “Well, maybe he kind of is.” A slight smile quirked on his lips and Richard grinned at him. “So, you were saying about a day pass?”

Before the clock rung, summoning Asylum’s inhabitants to their various daily activities, he and Richard had made plans for a weekend away together. At the beach. John couldn’t shake the slight apprehension at going shirtless in the good weather (although the bruises had faded, the scars still remained), but he also wasn’t willing to pass up the chance to see Richard in swim trunks. Plus, the weekend away from Sherlock would likely do him a world of good. Now, just to tell Sherlock. John dreaded it.

He dragged his feet on the way back to the flat. “Sherlock?” he called once through the door, wondering if the man had come back yet or not. John also was planning to ask him about his behavior when it came to Richard. Whatever motivation Sherlock had, it wasn’t fair to be frightening the other man because of it. Everyone that came to Asylum had problems, and Sherlock couldn’t exacerbate them.

Only silence greeted him and John looked around, taking a closer look at the flat. He was surprised to see Sherlock staring at the ceiling, laying on his bed. If he was awake, why hadn’t he responded? “Sherlock?” John said tentatively, again.

“You’re repeating yourself,” Sherlock snapped.

“You missed your paracetamol,” John realized, walking immediately to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and some pills. “No wonder you’re cranky.” It was a matter of seconds before he slipped the pills into Sherlock’s waiting hand and gave him the glass. “We need to talk.” Sherlock’s gaze flickered to John’s before he grabbed the glass, tossing the pills into his mouth and gulping the cold water.

“About what?” Sherlock muttered, shoving the empty glass back at John.

“You threatened Richard.” John eyed him, skeptical, although he took the glass back to the kitchen and sat it on the sink. That was one relative advantage about Sherlock being ill - he wasn’t able to destroy the flat as thoroughly as he had before. It didn’t surprise John at all that his ribs were healing rapidly. Already he was completely mobile and John bet that it’d be just another week before he had the rest of his range of motion back. Sigh. The kitchen had stayed clean for so long.

Sherlock didn’t answer, and he was avoiding John’s gaze. “Don’t do it again,” John advised him. Sherlock said nothing. “I’m going away for the weekend, just so you know. I’ll leave Saturday morning and be back Sunday evening. I’ve talked to the housing lady and she’s agreed to check in on you while I’m gone.” John eyed him, faintly surprised. “She says you two are quite familiar with each other.”

Sherlock grunted noncommittally. “Anything else?” John blinked at him, surprised he’d finally said something.

“No,” he responded evenly. “I think that covers just about everything.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, his fingers coming up to rest in their familiar position underneath his chin. John recognized the posture for what it was, and he exhaled slowly. Sherlock was doing his best to completely shut John out. He could stay like that for hours and it was useless for John to argue. Grabbing his mobile from the nightstand John strode over to the bed and sat on it, his legs crossed.

About an hour later Sherlock’s mobile went off. He glanced at it, stood up, grabbed it and walked stiffly out of the room. John heard him answer and then the words got cut off when Sherlock closed the door behind him. “What was that about?” John asked the phone in his hands. He wasn’t expecting an answer, and he didn’t get one. Not that it mattered, really. Slowly John was able to put Sherlock out of his mind. Richard was so much better in so many ways.

He was loving and caring and sweet - and oh god, a good kisser. John couldn’t even think about what he’d be like in bed without getting hard. Swim trunks, John thought. He needed to get some. He brought up Amazon and started searching for a pair that wouldn’t make him feel too old, or too young. John grinned. It was going to be a fantastic weekend.

Sherlock was still absent when John headed out to dinner. He had stopped eating in their flat, especially when the alternative was eating with Richard somewhere the two could talk and kiss when no one else was around. John had considered switching rooms, since Richard had originally been without a flatmate, but someone had moved in with him earlier that day.

“He’s an ex-military officer,” Richard told John, nibbling at the last of his roll. “I think he was a sniper years ago.”

“What got him sent here?” John asked, eating the remnants of his mashed potatoes.

Richard laughed. “I haven’t asked him yet.” He looked at John, his gaze meaningful. John blushed, just the tip of his ears, and looked away. While he had told Richard the basics about his relationship with Angelie, he had not told him the whole story. It made him feel vulnerable, uncomfortable. A small voice in the back of his head pointed out he had no problems telling Sherlock. John silenced the voice and turned his focus back to his – friend.

“Soon,” he told Richard, his voice thick with promise. Richard’s smile was warm and comforting and John felt his shoulders relax, losing the stiffness he had not even realized that he had. They finished their dinner in a companionable silence, John getting up to toss away the disposable plates and utensils.

They settled together on the ground, backs against the wall of Richard’s cabin. There was a noise that drew John’s attention and he shifted slightly, putting himself between the taller man and whatever potential danger was out there. Richard stood up and crossed his arms. John did the same, wary now. He was pacified slightly by the look of utter nonchalance on Richard’s face, but there was the slightest hint of irritation lurking in the back of his companion’s expression. That was unnerving in itself, for Richard had not seemed the type to be irritated by anything.

There was a noise, off to the side, and John looked up and saw Sherlock standing there, staring balefully at Richard. “Hello, Sherly,” Richard said casually. With that he relaxed, examining his nails as if nothing had happened. “It’s only been a day since our last little meeting. Miss me that much?”

“Jim,” Sherlock spat, his voice venomous. “Jim Moriarty.” John stared between the two, feeling left out, like he had missed something significant.

“Why is he calling you Jim?” John asked Richard, clearly confused.

“Because that’s his name,” Sherlock said icily, all of his attention focused on the smaller, dark-haired man.

“Sherly, Sherly.” The man John knew as Richard shook his head, looking fairly disappointed. “You never could keep your mouth shut, could you?”

“So - Jim,” John said slowly, looking back and forth. “You two know each other, then?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock snarled, his voice disdainful. John thought he could detect the smallest hint of a tremour underneath it. “Get behind me, John.” Richard – no, Jim - smirked at the curly-haired man, still picking at his nails. John didn’t move an inch. Sherlock’s gaze finally tore itself from Jim and looked John up and down. He was surprised to see pain flicker across Sherlock’s normally stoic face. Something was seriously wrong.

“Aww, Johnny boy,” Jim whined, his voice oddly nasal. “You’re going to betray me after we spent such a wonderful time together?” John narrowed his eyes, his heart thumping oddly. Something was very, very wrong. The smarter part of him was informing him that it sounded like he had been duped, and duped badly.

“Behind me, John.” Sherlock’s voice was strained this time, his gaze focused intently on scrutinizing Jim’s every move. Every flicker of the dark eyes, of the pale fingers, everything.

“Sherly, you didn’t tell him who I was? Such a good little toy you are,” Jim purred, his voice lilting and caressing the syllables as he spoke. John’s heart felt like it was going to pound out of his chest and his stomach was roiling. He felt nauseous, like he was going to vomit, but he steadily walked to stand right next to Sherlock. All he knew that something was horribly, horribly wrong, and he had managed to get himself in the middle of it.

Sherlock - Sherlock, who had asked for so little sincerely in the time they had known each other - was distressed. Pieces of a disturbing puzzle were starting to come together, starting with Sherlock’s odd behavior the past few weeks, the sudden change in Jim’s personality, and the amount of time Sherlock had been absent from the flat. John had no idea what the hell was going on, but part of him trusted Sherlock implicitly. “What’s going on here?” John demanded in his best military voice.

“I figured he had no idea who I was.” Jim shook his head, a smirk dancing about his thin lips. This wasn’t an amused smirk, John noted with trepidation. This was a dangerous, razor-thin expression that did not bode well for whomever saw it. “He was so easy to seduce, Sherly. You should keep better care of your pets.”

“I’m not a pet,” John gritted out through clenched teeth. He made to step forward but one of Sherlock’s arms stopped him. “What the hell is going on, Sherlock? Richard – Jim, whoever in the hell you are - what are you doing?”

“Tell him or I will,” Jim chided. He was almost playful, the way he was taunting the taller man. It sent shivers down John’s spine and he desperately wished he had a gun on him. “Tell him who I am.”

“John, do you remember the photos?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, his ice-cold gaze focused intently on Jim’s face.

“Yes,” John murmured, repeating it louder when he wasn’t certain if Sherlock had heard. “Yes.”

“He is the one that took them. He’s also the one that slipped them into our room.” Sherlock’s gaze was hard as it bored into Jim, hatred emanating from every pore of his skin.

“I wonder what you have up your sleeve, little Sherly, for you to be coming after me like this.” Jim said in a sing-song voice, sharp amusement colouring his tone. “You know what happens to naughty little boys when they don’t obey their masters, don’t you?” His gaze was frankly sexual as it swept over Sherlock’s clothed body. “My naughty little slut, he was. He loved every minute of it.” Jim told John pointedly. Sherlock took a step back as if he had been punched in the gut, pressing his arm uncomfortably close to John’s body.

“Is it true, Sherlock?” John’s voice cracked uncomfortably, but he forced himself to continue, his throat so tied in knots he could barely speak. “Jim is the one who abused you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, shifting slightly so that he was between John and his enemy.

It was then that the full magnitude of what had happened, and what was happening hit one John Hamish Watson, MD. The blonde doctor sank to his knees, his eyes wide, like he had been stabbed in the heart. “You tricked me,” he said slowly, testing out the words.

“You were so easy, Johnny boy,” Jim said, shaking his head. “I would have thought that Sherly’s pet would at least present something of a challenge.” He paused, considering. “Of course, I did tell him I would break you if he told you anything. It’s a shame Sherly finally learned his manners.”

“I’m not his pet,” John muttered, shifting so that he was sitting more comfortably. He had one knee on the ground and the other pointed up, his forehead resting on the pointed knee as he tried rapidly to gather his thoughts. John forced himself to stand beside Sherlock. He had been so stupid to fall for Jim’s tricks. Jim had given him everything he had wanted, and he had taken it. What had Sherlock felt, John wondered, watching him fall into Jim’s trap? Was that how he had snared Sherlock?

“Should I tell him what we did, Sherlock?” Jim taunted, shaking his head.

“Don’t forget that I helped.” The deep voice came from somewhere to Jim’s left and a flash of annoyance crossed over Jim’s face.

“You’re late, Seb,” Jim snarled. John studied him intently, noting how ugly his face was when he was angry. Gone was the happy, carefree Richard that John had spent a glorious week with. His stomach thrashed and John fought hard to stay standing. He wanted to vomit until there was nothing left in his stomach, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He needed to be strong for Sherlock. Although he was still standing, John could see how staying this close to his abuser was affecting him.

John caught sight of the man who emerged from the shadows. It was the cold, calculating expression that jogged John’s memory. Ignoring Sherlock’s gestures to be silent, John pointed an accusing finger in Seb’s direction.

“You!” he gasped. “You were in one of the photos.” The man smirked in John’s direction and then turned his focus back to Moriarty.

“What do you want, Moriarty?” Sherlock snapped, drawing the attention of all parties back to him.

“I want to play, Sherly,” Jim answered easily, shifting his posture yet remaining casual the entire time. “We’ve already had this talk.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Moriarty, that ‘playtime’ is over.” A fifth man stepped out of the shadows behind Sherlock. John whirled automatically, his hand moving to the position that would normally steady his gun to shoot. He had never regretted not having a gun more than that particular moment.

“Aww, Mycroft,” Jim pouted. “You’re ruining my fun.” He considered the darkness and the relative silence around them, shifting just slightly so that he was closer to Seb. “Well, I can tell you anyways, Johnny boy.” His smile was pure evil. “Should I tell you how I fucked Sherly in so many different ways until he begged me to come? What I let all my men do to his body? The bruises? How I broke him so thoroughly that he’ll remember me the rest of his life?” The sing-song quality was back to Jim’s voice, as was the roiling nausea in John’s stomach. “He was good, that one. I would’ve kept him longer if I could, but he was naughty and escaped.”

“You bastard,” Mycroft snarled. John glanced at him and noticed how pale the already pale Holmes brothers were. It was clear to John that this was the first time that anyone but Sherlock had heard any details of what had happened to him.

“Aw, Mycroft, are you a naughty boy too?” Jim purred. Mycroft was shaking now, his anger clear in the tremours of his body. There was the sound of a branch snapping and Jim’s face slackened immediately into a cold, calculating gaze and he turned to Seb. “Time for us to go.” Mycroft had pulled out a mobile, pressing it to his ear. He was talking rapidly into it in a language that John didn’t recognize. Not that it mattered, really.

As John heard the car start and pull away, he felt his legs give out underneath him and his knees buckled. This time he threw up. Again, and again, until the dry heaves wracked his empty body with vicious shudders. John wasn’t wholly surprised when he was finally able to sit back and he saw Sherlock looking at him, crouched down next to him. “That’s why you threatened him,” John croaked, the hoarseness of his own voice startling him. “That’s why you did what you did.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said quietly. He looked away from John, unable to face him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John’s voice broke as he spoke and he viciously scrubbed his face with a balled up hand. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

Sherlock was silent as he slipped John’s arm over his shoulder and helped him up, careful to prevent John from touching his bare skin. They slowly started to limp back to the flat. He knew what he needed to say, he knew what would make it better, what would make John understand. But he could not bring him to admit his shame, could not bear John to know the true depths of his depravity. John stopped and stared at him dumbly and Sherlock sighed, able to sense his motions although he couldn’t see him.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Sherlock?” John demanded. He was horrified and disgusted at having been drawn in so effortlessly to Moriarty’s web. John felt violated. He felt used. He had been both. Jim had manipulated him, violated him, used him. All to further his own sick means.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice came from behind the pair. John used the distraction to twist out of Sherlock’s grasp, leaving the taller man standing by himself, his eyes narrowed in John’s direction.

“You let him use me,” John hissed, enraged. Sherlock could have ended everything with a few small words. He could have spared John from what he was experiencing, the shame and guilt that was already surging through his system. But he didn’t, because Sherlock was, at his core, a selfish human being.

“John, I – “ Sherlock tried. The words fought to escape, and John watched him open and close his mouth several times.

“Yeah, you don’t have a reason, do you?” John barked out a laugh and shook his head. “I should have known you would do something like this. You really don’t care about anyone else, do you?” he asked incredulously. “In the end, we’re just a source of amusement for you.”

Sherlock’s horrified expression deepened and John snorted contemptuously. “No, I’m done,” he told Sherlock forcibly. “I’m done being manipulated. I’m done being used. I’m done with Asylum. I have a sister, in the city. She’ll house me. It won’t be as safe as here, but you know what, Sherlock? At least I’m moving forward.” John ran a hand through his hair, ignoring the stricken look on Sherlock’s face. “I’m moving forward. I’m leaving this place. And that’s something you’ll never do.”

Grabbing his mobile from his pocket, John dialed Harry’s number and walked away. He was turning his back on Sherlock Holmes, on Asylum, on what he would now consider his former life. Things were better. He could get a job as a doctor, make some money, and forge a life on his own. He would be happy and it would be worth it.

“Hey, Harry? Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I have a favor to ask of you…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will knock your socks off. In a good way, of course.


	8. Let Me Apologise To Begin With

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the last chapter, folks. I hope it lives up to expectations. Part 2 will start mid-to-late August probably. I haven't written any of it, so that'll be written-and-posted. As usual, you can find more details at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com).
> 
> Thanks so much for hanging in this long!
> 
> (Yes, I know it's Wednesday. It required fewer edits than I thought.)

Sherlock had no choice but to stand there and watch the one person that mattered to him walk out of his life. The one person he had put so much on the line for, had suffered for. He felt hollow, felt empty, the ghost of his heart choosing that moment to shatter into thousands of pieces. John continued talking into the phone, his voice low, his back pointedly turned in Sherlock’s direction.

Involuntarily his hand reached out in John’s direction, as if to grasp him, to pull him back. He realized what he was doing and stopped, his face tightening as his mind warred momentarily with his body. It was the same conflict that Moriarty ignited in him. His body had seized up, his mind refusing to accept the reality.

John was leaving, and there was nothing he could do about it. Closing his eyes, Sherlock detached from parts of his brain, allowing the logical, rational side to swim to the surface. Sentiment was weakness. It had been something Sherlock had seen many times before, but this was the last time he would let it happen. Never again would Sherlock Holmes fall to something as petty as feelings, childish sentiment that would only end in pain no matter what he did or what he sacrificed.

Immediately he felt his back stiffen and his chin tilt up, assuming his normal, uncaring posture. His face was blank, he was sure, devoid of all emotion. If it had been an option, he would have gone back to his flat, laid down on the bed and just stared at the ceiling until the world went away. But it wasn’t. All of John’s belongings were still there. The sofa was still there, where Moriarty had - his mind stuttered and blanked, failing him.

It was then that Sherlock realized someone had been repeating his name softly for a minute, with increasing levels of concern. It was Mycroft. Mycroft was still there. Sherlock turned towards his brother, opening his eyes. His gaze was frosty - for all his brother was the one dubbed the Ice Man, Sherlock could be cold when he needed to. “I think we’re done here.”

“I think not,” Mycroft responded evenly. He had a brolly clasped in his hand, the tip dipping into the soft grass they stood on.

“I handed your men Moriarty. If you do not catch him, it is not my responsibility.” Sherlock half-turned away, surveying his surroundings. Where could he stay for the night? A small part of him, a small voice in his head chimed in that he was a coward. He was not even considering leaving Asylum. John had been right, had been right about everything.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his tone warning.

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, his tone as hostile as his posture. It was then that he realized he was shaking, his body vibrating in its effort to contain his emotions. He fought to regain control, fought to bend his transport to his will. Without any warning he felt someone slip an arm around his waist and draw him back, simultaneously slipping a needle into the side of his neck and depressing the plunger. Sherlock hissed, feral as he tried to fight the darkness consuming him.

He woke up in a bed that felt oddly similar to his own, but was not; it felt too different. Momentarily disoriented, he laid quietly while attempting to recall what had happened. John - John was gone. His eyes fluttered open as that thought became a stark reality. It was not the room he had shared with John, but another, mostly unfurnished, with a look that indicated it had not seen an occupant in a long time.

Sherlock was grateful for the kindness and hated it at the same time. Mycroft had to have been the one that drugged him, that slipped the needle into his neck. Chemical restraint was becoming the default for Sherlock, and it was not good news for his brainwork. Eventually it could cause permanent damage. “You’re awake,” Mycroft said quietly, jolting Sherlock out of his thoughts. He had not even realised that his brother was in the room. To his practiced ear Mycroft sounded the slightest bit relieved, as if there had been times where he feared that Sherlock would not have regained consciousness. Considering how he felt, Sherlock could not disagree that it was a possibility to be examined – and quite intently.

“Yes,” he answered curtly. “You drugged me.”

“Just a bit of valium, nothing drastic,” Mycroft pointed out. “Besides, brother dear, I fear you were not coping with the situation. Sentiment never has been your strong point.” He shook his head sadly.

“I can see you have so much experience with it, with your string of failed relationships and all,” Sherlock drawled. He knew he had hurt his brother when the slightly taller man tensed, his eyes narrowing. Mycroft took a breath and allowed the stress to bleed out of his shoulders.

“You are attacking me to feel better. How very childish of you, Sherlock. Mummy would be so disappointed in you.”

“Where am I?” Sherlock lifted his head and craned around to see the room, ignoring the twinge of pain at his movements. The gauze had been removed and the stitches as well. How long had he been knocked out?

“You are in one of Asylum’s spare rooms,” Mycroft answered promptly, his voice careful. “Dr. Watson has removed all of his belongings from your old room and has departed, but I thought that you may not like waking up to find him gone.”

“Why would I care?” Sherlock snorted. He turned his gaze to the ceiling, inspecting the cracks and determining what made them different from the ceiling of the flat he had shared with - no, he couldn’t even refer to him by name. He had to be strong. Strengthening his resolve, he allowed his jaw to slacken and his face to compose itself into a mask of indifference. “He meant nothing to me.”

“Why does this feel like I am having this conversation for a second time?” Mycroft sighed, settling his ever-present umbrella between his legs and leaning forward. “I do not care if you admit it to me, but for heaven’s sake, Sherlock, admit it to yourself.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock heard himself mutter petulantly. He groaned; that was as good as a confession. It was the truth, however, for it did not matter what he did. John was gone, and Sherlock would remain and rot like the selfish example of humanity he was.

“You may stay in this room if you please. You may return to your old room if you prefer that,” Mycroft said graciously, standing. “Either way, you will have security trailing you, so be prepared.” He lifted a finger, stalling Sherlock’s objections. “We did not catch Moriarty. At the very least, Sherlock, I need to ensure that you are protected.”

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock forced himself to remain calm. “Might want to put someone on John, too.”

Looking thoughtful, Mycroft nodded. “I shall.” He walked to the door and stopped, turning back to look at his younger brother. Sherlock glared at him, daring him to comment. He sneered at Mycroft as the older man turned around and strode out the door. This was a first-floor flat, then, for he did not hear Mycroft take any stairs.

Sherlock laid silently on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. There was no point in getting up, no point in facing the world. There was no John. He had no idea when the blonde-haired military doctor had become so integral to his existence, but he had. And John was right. Sherlock was too cowardly to move forward, too scared to take the few simple steps that would have sent him down the right path the previous night. The crisis could have been avoided, and it was Sherlock’s fault.

He had no idea how some people could live with those kind of events, for it was certainly bothering him. Tossing and turning, Sherlock attempted to settle down enough to rest his half-healed injuries. Part of his mind, a treacherous, evil part pictured John sitting on the bed next to him, looking down at him with that expression, caring and worried about the strain on Sherlock’s barely-healed scars. A faint sob escaped his lips and he turned on his side, curling into a ball.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, piercing through the walls of denial Sherlock had spent so much time building up. Caring was, as the saying went, not an advantage. But it was also not something Sherlock had learned that he had any control over. He cared about John whether or not he wanted to. With John physically gone, all Sherlock’s mind craved was to have him back. Even rumpled by Moriarty, the signs of their discretions present on his clothes - John was a balm to Sherlock’s soul.

There was a knock on the door and Sherlock scowled. It was most definitely not the best time, and the ruffian in him just wanted to tell the knocker to sod off. He ignored the knock, and ignored its twin when the same knock was repeated two minutes later. “Sherlock Holmes?” an unfamiliar voice said, cautious. “I’ve been told that you’re in there.”

Sherlock heard a key scrabble in the lock before the knob turned and the door opened. It meant little, for Moriarty had been able to sneak into his flat with no warning, but it released just a bit of the tension in Sherlock’s gut since the man had possession of a key. A tall man with brown hair shot through with silver stepped into the room. He was dressed in nice khakis and a button-down, checkered shirt. Deep purple bruises under his eyes indicated a lack of sleep, making him look older than he was. Probably late thirties, and he looked far more exhausted than a normal man his age should.

Married, although his wife was cheating on him. Was a policeman of sorts, detective inspector. Had not slept in at least a day and a half. Had several cups of coffee and still was barely going. “If you are coming to arrest me for something, Detective Inspector, I have done nothing wrong.” Sherlock’s voice was crisp and curt, dismissive in its extreme. The man looked amused and shook his head.

“Nope, nothing to arrest you for,” he answered easily. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. Your brother suggested you might be able to point me in the right direction with this case. We’re having some trouble figuring out how the culprit did it.”

“With the collective intelligence of New Scotland Yard, it is barely surprising that you are having problems solving a nontraditional homicide,” Sherlock said snidely. It was enough to get him to sit up and turn in the man’s direction, eager for the puzzle to be presented to him. It was something he had never shared with John, a memory he could forge on his own and create a pathway to the point where he would no longer hear that name and feel regret thrumming in his chest.

“Yeah, your brother said you’d say that.” There was a weary amusement to DI Lestrade’s face and Sherlock rolled his eyes. The Detective Inspector handed him a case file and Sherlock plucked it out of his hands, opening it and eagerly devouring the details. “Fifty one year old Kayla Smith was discovered dead three days ago in her apartment. Door was locked from the inside. She was found in the shower, and it looked like she had slipped and hit her head. Medical examiner revealed some significant bruising that was not consistent with the fall pattern, so we were thinking homicide.”

Lestrade sighed and then continued. “Boyfriend and husband have been ruled out thanks to alibis, although the boyfriend’s DNA has been found on the crime scene, including semen in her vagina. There was evidence of sexual assault, however. There was an unidentified fingerprint on the wall of the shower, where it’s possible that someone held their hand as they bashed her head in against the edge of the tub.”

Sherlock absorbed what Lestrade was saying with ease, flipping through the lab values, photos, and other assorted information that composed the file. He sighed. “It’s painfully obvious,” he told the detective with a roll of his eyes. “Look for her boyfriend’s twin.”

“Boyfriend’s twin?” Lestrade asked, clarifying. Sherlock sighed; it felt like performing for a trained monkey.

“DNA and evidence of sexual assault, yet the apartment was locked from the inside - because the victim knew the attacker and was familiar with them. The same DNA indicates that you’re looking for an identical twin. This doesn’t look like a case of rape by the boyfriend - especially reading his history, he seems quite docile, and to go straight to rape as one’s first violent crime is relatively rare.” Sherlock continued flipping through the file, momentarily silent. “So, an attacker who looked extremely similar to someone she knew, had the same DNA, but was not him - a twin, obvious. Although identical twins share DNA, no two fingerprints are exactly the same, and that shall lead you to him. Kayla is missing a necklace. It looks cheap, but engraved. Killer took it as a trophy. You should find it on his person when you catch him.”

Lestrade was staring at him, his mouth partially open. Sherlock leaned back against the wall and sighed, waiting for the reprimand. “Brilliant,” he said, and for a second Sherlock was hearing John, hearing the military doctor’s enthusiastic endorsement of his skill.

Sherlock shrugged. “If you don’t botch it up, I would recommend looking for the suspect not far from the crime scene. He might live nearby.”

“Thanks,” DI Lestrade said, pleased. He grinned at Sherlock. “I’ll keep you posted if we catch the bastard.” Sherlock nodded silently, although he could not deny that what Lestrade had said interested him greatly.

“If you want,” Sherlock dismissed, using the appropriately snide shrug.

“I don’t have to.” The DI lifted an eyebrow and Sherlock scowled. “Thought so.” He chuckled and moved towards the door, his hand on the knob. “I’ll see you later, then.” Lestrade tilted his head, suggestive, and then left, leaving Sherlock behind, glaring at the wooden door.

For moments, all Sherlock heard was blessed silence. Solving the homicide had taken no longer than he needed to flip through the photos and the information, the pieces of the puzzle all sliding neatly into place. What was it like, in the minds of normal people? Sherlock had never given them much thought before, and likely would not in the future. John, a small part of his mind pointed out. John was normal. Sherlock rolled his eyes. John was the farthest thing from normal.

John was wonderful and complex and had fought through so much and…Sherlock lifted his head and let it smack down on the bed, pleased when pain lanced through his skull and jarred his mind from its topic. Everything came back to John, every blasted topic. That likely meant something, but what? If it had been someone else, if it had been something far purer than clouded sentiment, Sherlock would have been able to figure it out. Instead Sherlock was left muddying up his mind with such pedestrian topics.

John had left. He was gone, he was no longer Sherlock’s problem, no matter how much he wanted him to be. “Go to him.” Sherlock nearly threw something.

“Mycroft,” he said, disgusted. “Can’t leave me alone for more than twenty minutes, can you?”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft shook his head, pulling over a chair and settling a few feet from his younger brother. “I doubt leaving you alone like this would be much of a benefit to anyone.”

“Just get out,” Sherlock hissed.

“You miss him. Every topic comes back to him, even things you have done that he was not involved in.” Mycroft’s eyes had lost their focus, staring at the wall behind Sherlock. “You do things and you wish you could tell him about them. You feel empty, and then sad, and then ashamed. You regret every little thing that you have ever done to push him away. You wish you could do something different, wish you could have done something different in the past.” He sighed, a slow exhalation. “Yet you’re afraid. You are scared that if you move forward, you will lose it all.”

Sherlock stared at his brother, trying hard to not let his astonishment show. It was muddled by irritation, for Mycroft had been far too correct for his liking. “You’re speaking from personal experience, aren’t you?”

Mycroft’s eyes met his, and there was something underneath the thin veneer of his guard, something broken and sad. “Yes, I am.” Then the eye contact was broken, and the tension building in the air lessened. “It does not matter. What does matter, Sherlock, is that you still have a chance to fix this.”

A realisation flashed through Sherlock’s mind. “The police man.”

Mycroft’s breath hitched and a slight grimace passed across his lips. “Yes.”

“What happened?” Sherlock watched the stiffness invade Mycroft’s frame, but could not regret the question.

Mycroft sighed. “I was young and foolish. Gregory was a detective Sergeant, and I had just graduated from University. I was - not of the best moral caliber when it came to sexual liaisons, yet somehow, there was something different with him. Eventually he grew to want more than I could give him, and when the time came - he left.”

“That’s only half the story,” Sherlock said, his voice scornful.

Mycroft’s eyes met and held his, pointed. “Would you tell John all of the details? Every little thing that Moriarty did to you?” Sherlock blanched at the thought, flinching. “As much as I care for you, brother dear, you do not need to know all of the extraneous details.” He exhaled slowly. “The point is, Sherlock, you are not me. You have a heart.”

“No I don’t,” Sherlock retorted.

“Moriarty may have made you think that way,” Mycroft agreed, “But he is wrong.” Sherlock drew back as the intensity of Mycroft’s focus increased. “Sherlock, you cannot give him up. Do you think you can live the rest of your life like this?”

“Yes,” he muttered stubbornly. Mycroft sighed. He stood and walked to the door, silent for a few moments.

“If you stay, if you stagnate and rot, that makes you exactly what Dr. Watson made you out to be. A selfish coward. Think about it, Sherlock. Is that what you want?” With that, Mycroft was gone, leaving Sherlock glaring up at the ceiling.

A week passed, not that Sherlock noticed. He stayed in the bed, his palms pressed together underneath his chin, staring balefully at the ceiling. His mind was a maelstrom of thoughts, all centering around a single point. The mystery of Dr. John Watson.

Even as a child Sherlock had been avoided. He rarely saw his mother, his father was around even less, and as soon as Mycroft could leave, he did. Sherlock started talking early and deducing as soon as he was able to, designing a mind palace of everything he saw and recording it for the future. Organising his mind was the only way he could cope with the constant influx of data.

Not that it helped him, for sentiment was not something so easily catalogued. There were so many differences, so many permutations in how people acted. Even the irrational ones, like love, had several different forms. Agape, eros, philia, and storge. In English, they all fell under the same definition - love - yet they had such different connotations.

Agape was (and to this Sherlock snorted) considered a selfless, nearly spiritual love. The type one felt for one’s partner or children. Love was not selfless; no emotion was. Eros, passionate love. A carnal, banal thing that Sherlock had never felt the need to indulge in. It was physical and raw and Sherlock thought far beneath him. Philia, friendly love. Sherlock had no friends, and no need to catalogue this particular type of sentiment. Lastly there was storge, or family love. Sherlock snorted, for he had no family to which that type of love applied.

All different terms for the same word that seemed to be so rarely uttered in society. They treated ‘love’ like it was something special, something precious. Something that, if one did not have it, one should attempt to acquire. Sherlock thought there was nothing else more ridiculous than that. But John. Closing his eyes, he exhaled slowly, focusing.

What did he feel for John? Was it love? Breathing slowly, deliberately, Sherlock let the thoughts of his flatmate rise to his surface, ignoring the pain in his chest. John smiling, John frowning, John seeming amused by yet another experiment that overflowed onto his side of the room. Waking up lying next to him, being comforted after everything shattered, after he realized that John cared.

Did John still care? Sherlock doubted it. Sherlock by himself was bad enough to deal with, much less adding in his baggage. But there was still - something lingering there, smouldering like an ember in Sherlock’s chest. It seemed to grow as he thought of John, thought of seeing him again, making him smile, hearing his laugh, seeing him sit there quietly and read, absorbed in something so simplistic yet something the doctor enjoyed so much.

The housing supervisor, a kind old woman named Mrs. Turner, bustled in the door. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the platter of food she brought. “Eat just a touch, there’s a good lad,” she cooed, leaving it sat on the table nearest the bed. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, you’re naught but skin and bones.” She tsked disapprovingly and patted him reassuringly on the head. He glared at her and was promptly ignored as she fussed about the room.

It was moments later and she disappeared, leaving the food behind. Sherlock eyed it warily and then dismissed it. He was not hungry; he had a puzzle to solve. A soft clinking noise drew his attention as a spoon clattered off of its platter and he noticed the mug of tea. That he could tolerate. He sat up and put the mug to his lips. It was nothing like the tea that John had made him, not the same brew, not the same - well, it lacked John’s touch.

Minutes later, the mug emptied, Sherlock realized that he was out of clothes. His previous outfits laid messily on the floor, discarded at the end of each day. He had no choice; he was going to have to go back to his flat. Walking rapidly outside, it took a few glances about before he knew where he was and where he was going. It was simple. His coat around his shoulders, he turned the collar up to lessen the wind against his cheeks, cold as he was.

Standing in front of his building, Sherlock forced himself to take a deep breath before walking up the stairs. As soon as he opened the door he stopped, staring blankly into the room. Half of it looked - just wrong. All of John’s stuff was gone, the bed stripped, items placed into the sterile arrangement they had been in prior to the day the doctor moved in. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Sherlock walked forward.

Moving towards his wardrobe, he took out one of his immaculate suits and walked into the bathroom. He showered and changed quickly, a firm grasp on his mind. Everything he saw was a reminder of times past. The shower itself reminded him of the last time John had been there, had pulled him out after - Moriarty. Memories flashed in front of his eyes - John freshly showered, his hair clinging to his head. John wearing pyjamas and lazing about their flat. Even in his most pedestrian moments, he was still John. Interesting and complex and Sherlock could not deny that he felt drawn to him.

Dressed, Sherlock walked out of the bathroom. His attention was drawn by a small pile of medical supplies on the table and a short note. He froze where he stood, body tensing up. John would have been the only one to leave them there, the only one that would have cared enough to do that. He approached the table and grabbed the note. It was short and professional, signs and symptoms that Sherlock should be aware of in case any of his still-healing injuries became infected.

Making a split-second decision, Sherlock grabbed his mobile and shoved it into his pocket. He pulled on his thick wool coat, quickly tying a scarf around his neck. A quick look around the flat to check for anything he missed and he was off, walking as quickly as he could towards the road closest to Asylum’s exit.

He pulled the mobile out of his pocket and was about to call for a taxi when he heard a soft ping. Opening the text message, he saw it was an address. The sender was Mycroft, which meant the address had to be John’s sister’s. Sherlock grumbled internally at his brother’s good timing, but moved all that much faster to leave Asylum. He rattled off the address to the first taxi that stopped, leaving the mobile on his lap. A second ping he ignored.

What was he doing? Sherlock shook his head, not allowing himself to think about the implications of his actions. That note had sparked something in him, had sent his memories spiraling back to the night that John had held him as he lost control. Sherlock had done him a great disservice, reacting the way he did, but no longer. He was going to make things right, make the doctor understand how much he meant to him. Checking his phone, he saw he had another text. This was from a number he did not recognise, but he opened it nonetheless. ‘We caught the bastard! Good work! GL’ The DI. The case.

Sherlock was yanked out of his thoughts all too quickly when the taxi arrived at its destination and he got out, paying the driver before staring uncomfortably at the flat in front of him. He had not thought this far ahead, had not thought of what he was going to say. Suddenly everything was real and Sherlock felt fragile, like he was made out of glass. One wrong word, one wrong sentence and John was going to leave him forever. He had one chance.

Steeling himself, he walked up to the door and knocked, two sharp raps of his knuckles against the heavy wood. The thirty seconds that passed before someone opened the door felt like it took forever. Sherlock took a step back when John appeared. The military doctor had lost weight in the week they had been separated and he had bruises under his eyes, indicative of poor sleeping patterns. He looked nearly as bad as Sherlock felt.

John’s eyes widened when he saw Sherlock, who desperately wanted to know whether it was a positive or negative sign. Was it a good thing? Was it happy surprise? Was it bad surprise? “What are you doing here?” John asked, his voice dull. If Sherlock had been the fidgeting sort, his hands would have been going wild. Instead they stayed tucked in his pockets, clenching into fists and releasing intermittently.

Realizing he had absolutely no idea what to say, Sherlock shifted until his legs were together. “I need you.” The weight of the words that left his mouth did not hit him until he finished, their impact nearly bowling him over. That was not what he had intended to say! Although, Sherlock’s logical part reminded him, he had formulated no plan, so aberrations should be accepted without worry.

John’s face clouded over and for a second, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. “No you don’t, Sherlock,” John told him, his voice laced with some emotion Sherlock couldn’t recognise. “You liked me for the game. That’s it.” He went to close the door and Sherlock darted forward, thrusting his foot into the gap before John could close it.

“Listen to me,” Sherlock said, pleading. He sounded absolutely pathetic, nearly to the point where he wanted to throw himself down on the ground and beg for forgiveness. He would, too, if that got him John back. Filing that thought away, he steadily lifted his head to make eye contact. “I need you, John Watson.” He was forced to grip the door tighter than he had predicted when his stomach rolled, threatening to take him down with it.

“Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?” John asked, opening the door just a little bit more.

“Not a valuable piece of information.” Sherlock shrugged, dismissive.

“When was the last time you remember eating?” The doctor opened the door slightly more, his expression taking on a familiar, worried cast.

“Two days before - before you left.” It had been some toast, or something John had brought him. Sherlock didn’t really remember, but he knew it had been food.

“Sherlock, that was a week and a half ago.” Shaking his head, John opened the door and gestured for Sherlock to enter. “I have some biscuits. God, you look like a wreck.”

Sherlock drew himself up, partially offended at that statement. “Look at your hands, git. Pinch the skin.” Doing as John commanded, Sherlock examined the offending appendages and pinched the skin. The small ridge he created lingered, taking far longer than normal to disappear. “You’re a wreck at taking care of yourself.” The tone John used was strangely fond, with undercurrents that made Sherlock nervous. He wished more than ever he knew what John was thinking.

Cautiously Sherlock walked into the small flat. There was a woman passed out on the couch, snoring away. “My sister,” John said, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. Still, he had invited Sherlock in and had not thrown him out. Things were going better than Sherlock could have predicted. “Sit.” He pointed to a bar stool and Sherlock sat, obedient. A shiver of unease had him fidgeting, but he focused and calmed down.

John walked quietly around the tiny kitchen, setting a kettle to heating up and grabbing a couple of packs of biscuits and putting them down in front of Sherlock. “Eat.” Ignoring the flutters of panic triggered by the commands, Sherlock instead focused on how differently they were spoken. Moriarty had been harsh, threatening pain if obedience was not offered, although he never minded having to take it forcibly. John was warmth, sunlight, strength and hope personified. Caring and dignified. He would not force Sherlock to do anything.

Sherlock reached out a hand and grabbed a biscuit, nibbling on it as he stared at the counter and avoided John’s gaze. The kettle burbled its readiness and John put together two mugs of tea, bringing them over to the counter and setting one in front of Sherlock once it was ready. The taller man had learned exactly how hungry he was, quickly demolishing one pack of biscuits and starting on another.

Continuing to nibble on biscuits, Sherlock waited for someone to say something. He was already out of words and had no idea where they were going to go next. Was this John’s pity? It had been such a flawed plan, a bad idea to begin with. Sherlock never should have agreed. Grabbing a pack of biscuits he stood up. “I’m sorry, I never should have come.”

“Sit down,” John said calmly. Cautiously Sherlock moved back to the stool, feeling his heart rate and breathing speed up. Fear, an adrenaline spike. John was going to do something, was going to say something and it would change everything. He just wish he knew what. “I’m going to lay down some ground rules, and then we’re going to talk.”

“Then what?” Sherlock heard himself ask.

“That depends,” John answered. His face, his words were guarded. He was willing to listen to Sherlock, but there were no clues as to what was coming.

“Okay.” Putting down the biscuit packet, Sherlock grabbed his mug of tea, draining it quickly. It had cooled off, some, but Sherlock was parched and did not care.

“You will not lie to me. And I’ll know if you do. I want nothing but the truth from you,” John started, lifting a single finger. “You will eat a full meal while you’re here. Without complaining,” he added, seeing Sherlock start to open his mouth. A second finger was lifted. “You will not interrupt me.” John was in the process of lifting a third finger when Sherlock broke in.

“Stop,” Sherlock said desperately, already breaking one of John’s rules. He blanched at the word, knowing that what he said would be misinterpreted, and nearly tripped over himself as he attempted to explain. “Please. Stop ordering me.”

“Why?” John asked, his voice gentler. Understanding dawned on his face and then shifted to horror mingled with regret. “Moriarty used to order you around, didn’t he?”

Sherlock could not make eye contact, could not even bear to look at John. “Yes,” he answered, his voice so soft that John could barely hear it. “Yes.”

Shifting positions, John arranged himself so that he was less threatening. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice genuine and apologetic.

“It’s nothing.” Sherlock shook his head, shaking away the discomfort.

“Sherlock, please look at me,” John said patiently.

“I can’t.” Sherlock said desperately.

“Can you answer a few questions for me?” John said softly, his voice calm, soothing. Sherlock nodded his agreement. “Can you tell me the truth?” Fighting back the urge to roll his eyes, Sherlock nodded again. “Did Jim do something to you?” Sherlock tilted his head, seeking clarification. “That - that night, Jim said you had seen him less than twenty four hours ago. Was that true?” Another nod. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“He asked me - he asked me to come play.” Sherlock measured the words as he said them, cautious. “I could see what he did nearly every day, written on your clothing and your behavior. I needed to see what his goals were, to see if I could head him off.” Taking a deep breath, his eyes fluttered shut. “It did not go well.”

“Why did you end up in the shower? The day I found you.” Letting John’s words wash over his skin, Sherlock soaked them in, comforted by the warmth with which he spoke, by the insinuation that he cared. All Sherlock could do was bare everything and hope that he did not end up like his brother.

“Moriarty came by. He…he touched me. I could not - could not stand to have the ghost of his hands on me.” Sherlock shuddered as the memories floated to prominence in his mind. He fought them down, battling nausea simultaneously.

“That’s why the gloves,” John mused. Sherlock nodded, realising that some pieces of the puzzle must have come together in John’s mind. John stood up and went to make some more tea. Sherlock allowed himself to watch John’s easy, practiced motions, comforted by the familiarity. What disturbed him was the rigidity to John’s shoulders, the indicators that things were not okay.

“I was afraid,” Sherlock said haltingly. He struggled to find the words he needed, tried to find what he had to say. “Our family motto is - caring is not an advantage. I have such a rudimentary understanding of sentiment. I didn’t know what to tell you.”

“Jim threatened you?” A fresh mug of tea appeared in front of Sherlock and he sipped it gratefully.

“Yes. He would - he would ‘take me back’, if I said anything to you.” It left an uncomfortable feeling in his mouth, baring his soul, but John had been nothing but caring and compassionate and Sherlock was just the tiniest bit hopeful. John made a soft noise in his throat and Sherlock snuck a glance at him out of the corner of his eye. He looked ragged, as if he had gone without sleep as long as Sherlock had. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock blurted out, looking horrified as soon as the words escaped his lips.

“For what?” John prompted, his tone surprised, as if he could not imagine that Sherlock had anything to apologise for. Ignoring the questions that the intonation raised, Sherlock plunged forward, risking it all.

“For not telling you about Moriarty. For not showing you how much to mean to me, for not showing you that you’re the reason I take care of myself - or tried to, anyway,” Sherlock muttered, glancing down at his emaciated frame. “For not showing you that I can’t sleep at night without you in the room. I need you, John Watson. I don’t have a choice.” It took all of his willpower, but he was able to lift his head and look John in the eyes. All of his guards were down. Everything he thought, everything he felt, things he could not give names to - it all showed in his eyes.

“Oh, Sherlock.” John watched him intently, his eyes reading everything that Sherlock shared. “I’m so sorry. I – I said some things to you, and I should not have. You didn’t deserve that.” He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes turning distant. “God. I mocked you for not being able to move on, and here you are. I tried to move on and I’m stuck.” He let out a short, mirthless laugh. “We’re both wrecks.”

Sherlock sat silently, not certain what to say. “I – you said what you felt, in that situation,” he said haltingly, feeling his way along in an uncomfortable line of conversation. “It was true.”

“No, it wasn’t,” John murmured. “None of it was.”

“John, you did not say anything I haven’t heard before,” Sherlock pointed out.

John looked back up at him, the intensity in his eyes catching Sherlock off guard. “That’s why I regret it so much, Sherlock. I’m not like them. I’m not like the idiots that – that thought you were worthless. That couch Harry’s on? That was my bed for four days. I didn’t move. I didn’t eat. All I thought about was how much I hurt you.” He shook his head, apparently disgusted with himself. Sherlock was staring at him, his mouth hanging open slightly. He closed it. “You don’t deserve that, Sherlock.”

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something and stopped, struggling to find the words he wanted to say, find the emotions he wanted to convey. “John,” he said finally, sounding choked between the emotions clogging his throat.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John asked, his voice ragged. His eyes were searching Sherlock’s, intent, mirroring the desperation Sherlock felt. “If you want to leave, if you never want to see me again, I will understand.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in horror at the meaning in John’s thoughts and again he cursed his inability to express his emotions. “No,” he said flatly. “I need you. I want you to be with me.” His fingers itched to touch, itched to memorize every inch of John’s skin until could never forget it. Instead he sat still, waiting for John to speak.

“You have to tell me, if I do something that hurts you,” John said softly, locking eyes with the taller man. “I can’t hurt you again. I don’t want to hurt you again. God, I regret almost everything I’ve done over the past couple months. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said immediately. Later he would work on fixing John’s perspective, deleting that egregious notion that John had somehow done something wrong by speaking the truth.

“I can’t go back to Asylum,” John said finally.

“I know,” Sherlock muttered, breaking the eye contact. His vulnerability was reaching its limit, and he felt raw and scraped enough as it was. “I - I have a friend, Mrs. Hudson. She owes me a favor.” His voice was shaking, and he stumbled over the words. “There’s - there’s a flat. In London. It’s not far from here.” Taking a deep breath, Sherlock made himself continue. “It’s - I have enough to tide us over for a few months, until we can get jobs. I - I have an offer, or I will, in London. I solved a crime, while you were gone.” John opened his mouth and Sherlock plunged forward. “There’s two bedrooms, we’ll both have our own space. I’m not - I’m not promising anything. I don’t even know what this is. But I need you.”

John opened his mouth and then closed it again, some emotion taking over his face. Sherlock desperately wished that he knew what it was, knew what John was thinking. Had that been too forward? “Can I touch you?” John asked, his voice soft. Sherlock hesitated and then nodded.

John’s hand was trembling, Sherlock noted with trepidation. The doctor reached out and carefully stroked one of Sherlock’s curls, tucking it back into the dark, messy bunch of Sherlock’s hair. There was a strange tenderness to John’s expression, something warm and soft that Sherlock was hesitant to label. “Yes,” John said simply. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he stared at John, fear simmering underneath the surface. Was John messing with him? Moriarty had long dangled things in front of Sherlock, only to yank them away. Nearly a year of only that had made Sherlock wary. But this was John - warm, steady John. John, who wanted to protect him, to take care of him.

Carefully John dropped his hand to the space between himself and Sherlock, tilting it so that his palm was facing upwards. Sherlock looked at it and then back at John, wary, not certain what the shorter man was asking of him. “It’s just a hand,” John said softly. He wiggled his fingers slightly, encouraging Sherlock. Cautiously Sherlock lifted his hand, placing it on top of John’s. Careful to broadcast his movements in advance, John deliberately twined their hands together, watching Sherlock’s face the entire time. It was shocking and likely the most intimate thing Sherlock had ever done with another person.

Sherlock forced himself to exhale, realizing that he had not done so in quite some time. “Yes?” he asked, drawing in a ragged breath.

John smiled, his thumb stroking over the back of Sherlock’s hand. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long, wonderful road and I'm so glad that people liked this piece. Thanks so much for reading the whole way through! You're all lovely people and I'm glad I could contribute to such a wonderful fandom!


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